Chapter V (2)

“So any stranger would suppose,” was the quiet reply; “but she is near seventy. But fifty years ago she was young, and lovely, and joyous; more, she was the only and idolized daughter of a princess of the realm, whose foreign lord fell in battle, having never seen his infant child. The widowed princess lived in seclusion, though in the neighborhood of a court; and though her daughter, the Lady Anna, received every advantage in the way of education, she was never presented at court, or allowed to mingle with courtly society. And, indeed, she seemed to feel no desire for ostentatious display or admiration, but rather delighted in the quiet of domestic life, and the unceremonious intercourse of confiding friendship. I will not tell you whose son I am, but I was not deemed an unsuitable companion for the royally-descended Lady Anna. My sister was the friend and confident of the princess, and I was a privileged visiter at her palace-home, and much in the society of her daughter from her childhood. I am an old man now, but then I was a boy, and had a young, ardent heart. I cannot tell when I first loved the Lady Anna. It seems that I loved her from eternity. She was always perfect in my estimation. Her actions were precisely what I would have dictated, and her words, the expression of my heartfelt sentiments. And then she was so beautiful—so truly beautiful. Not pretty; any young girl may be so dressed and ornamented as to appear pretty—and we frequently hear of styles of beauty; but true beauty is independent of dress or adornment; you adore it, not because it is tastefully arrayed, but because it is of itself adorable. I have seen ladies receiving homage as belles and beauties, who, in homely attire, and engaged in household toils, would have been really repulsive; but Lady Anna would have been entrancingly beautiful in any dress, or at any occupation; and notwithstanding her royal descent and superior attainment, she was gentle, unassuming, and of a loving and confiding nature. To me she was always frank and like a loving sister; and, oh, I was happy, perfectly happy in the possession of her pure regards. I had not thought of a change in our relations, of an interruption of our intercourse, of a separation—_never_! I felt as if we should live on, for and with each other forever. Every place where she had been was hallowed; every thing that she had touched, sacred in my estimation; and whatsoever she had looked upon was dear to my eye, and I felt that the light of her glance rested upon it. All my thoughts, and words, and deeds, had reference to her, and her approval was the whole aim of my life; and yet the selfish thought of appropriating her to myself, of making her _mine_, was no part of my soul’s worship. To be near her, to see her, and to hear her voice, was enough for my young heart.

“She was fifteen, and I three-and-twenty, when my guardians resolved to send me as confidential secretary to the minister to Sweden. I ought to have felt myself honored by this appointment, but I felt only an agony of grief. To go away from Lady Anna, and all the places where we had been together, was a trial which almost made me frantic. But I could not decline the appointment—I must depart. The affair was so sudden, and I had so little time for preparation, that I found no opportunity for a private interview with Lady Anna. She expressed deep regret at our approaching separation, but I felt, and keenly, that her sorrow was not like mine, not the desolation of soul that made the day dark and the night sleepless to me. Then I longed to tell her all my love—then I felt that I would have her all my own; and then I doubted for the first time the existence in her bosom of a love answering to my own. And in this state of mind the day of departure found me.

“‘You will write by every opportunity,’ she said, as I held her hand in my tremulous grasp. Her voice was low and sad, and as she looked into my face, tears gushed over her long eyelashes and fell large and bright upon her bosom. My soul was a whirlwind. I prest her hand to my lips, and hastened with unsteady steps from her presence.

“Three years—only three years—and yet they seemed three ages, was I a wanderer in stranger lands. I did write whenever I found opportunity—but opportunities were not so frequent fifty years ago as they are at present. So my missives were few, and only twice in those three years was my heart delighted by the receipt of a letter from Lady Anna.

“Sweet and gentle were her words, like those of a loving sister, and yet they did not satisfy my spirit. I longed for one passionate regret, one ardent expression of hope for our reunion, one sentence that evidently gushed involuntarily from a devoted heart. These were not in her letters.

“When it was announced to me that we were speedily to turn us homeward, my heart leaped up with a great bound, and then seemed to sink, pulseless, in my bosom. It was an agony like death; and from that hour until we landed on our native shore, my mind was a perfect chaos, or rather a tumult of opposite and contending emotions. Joy was fettered by apprehension; hope was throttled by deadly fear, and doubt, like a strong giant armed, beat back every ray of gladness, every beam of joyous anticipation, every spirit that dared to whisper of happiness to come. I thought of every event that might have occurred during the three years of my absence—of death—change—misfortune—and I almost wished for death, rather than the knowledge that awaited me; and yet I knew not what was in store.

“I arrived. The white cliffs—the silver beach—the green shore of my native land, were all unchanged. The majestic Thames was all the same as when last I passed adown its tide; the mighty city, with its towers and palaces, gleamed in the sunlight, as it had done since my boyhood. _There was no change._ My soul became calm, and as I traced the old familiar streets, and looked up to the well known buildings and paused in the shadow of the well-remembered trees, my heart became joyous, and I sped on to the abode of my dear and only sister. I should hear of Lady Anna there.

“I did hear. The princess had fallen into a decline. A sojourn in Italy had been named as her only chance of recovery, and to Italy she had gone, accompanied, certainly, by her only child, the Lady Anna. They had been gone nearly a year, and I need not tell you, that as soon as I could make arrangements, I followed them to that far-famed lovely land.

“They were at Pisa. I found them there. Our meeting was full of gladness—but _they were changed_. The princess was wholly subdued by pain and weakness. She was attenuated in person, and the lofty expression of her face was softened by a look of meek endurance. Her voice was low, and her smile—it came seldom—was sad, exceedingly.

“And Lady Anna, anxiety and watching had taken away the buoyancy of her person, and the sunlight of her spirit. She received me joyfully; but ere the first interview was over, I detected a restlessness, a sort of watching and insecurity in her eye and manner which had no reference to me, and for which I accounted by referring to the precarious state of her only parent’s health. Several times that day I observed her eyes fixed on her mother’s face, and dimmed with gathering tears.

“I discovered that here, as at home, she lived in seclusion, never mingling with the gay world, and I sought to draw her into society, with a view to divert her mind from its sadness. ‘I cannot join the dance, or listen to sweet music,’ she replied, ‘while my dear mother is suffering at home.’ I however persuaded her to go with me to some of the public exhibitions of the beautiful in art. We had visited several galleries, cabinets and churches; we had stood side by side, wrapt in awe or admiration; we had walked together amongst the sweet breathed flowers, and beneath the shadowy trees; we had stood upon the sea-coast, when the stars looked down upon their trembling images in the deep mirroring waters; we had looked together on many entrancing beauties of Nature as well as of Art; and I had felt my soul struggling to pour out before her the treasures of the inner temple of its love, but a something in her manner restrained me—I could not tell her of a passionate love. Now she was unto me as a loving sister—a declaration would change the relation between us, I knew not if for joy or sorrow.

“A mournful day arrived. The princess, who was forgotten by her country, fell unexpectedly asleep to awaken no more till the heavens pass away.

“Lady Anna arose from the heavy blow, and assumed a calm melancholy of demeanor. Yet, to my surprise, she spoke not of returning home. Months passed, and we were still at Pisa. Lady Anna suffering from an uneasiness which she could not conceal, and which at times broke forth in fits of passionate weeping, and again showed itself in almost sullen silence, or something akin to peevishness. The balance of her fine mind was evidently disturbed. She had a sorrow which she had not confided to my love.

“We were walking pensively along one of those glorious avenues, shadowed by tall, dark leaved trees, one fine June morning, when we saw a gay party, in open carriages, advancing from the country. Lady Anna, as usual, drew her veil over her lovely face, and walked on without evincing any curiosity, but I recognised some of the party, whom I had seen abroad, and directing her attention to a particular vehicle, the most magnificent in the _cortège_, I whispered, ‘there is a lady whom I have heard you wish to see—the Princess L——. Is she not lovely? And her husband is a noble looking man. Did you ever see his equal?’ I turned to Lady Anna, expecting her reply. She stood still, and as I touched her hand I started—it was cold and rigid as the hand of a corpse. I lifted her veil, and my heart grew cold with fear and wonder. Her face was white as death, and the features were fixed in an expression of the most intense agony. The carriages had all passed by, and there she stood, apparently changed to marble. I spoke to her, I entreated her to speak or move, and at length the tension of her nerves gave way, and she sunk powerless in my arms. A vehicle chanced that way, and I lifted her in, and bore her to her hotel. Sixteen hours she lay with no sign of life, except an almost imperceptible breathing, and then she rallied, lifted her head from the pillow, and looked wildly round the room, then clenching her hands together, she burst into a passion of lamentation and bitter weeping. I never witnessed distress equal to hers. She cried aloud, and her tears came not in drops, but flowed in continuous streams, and every sob seemed as if it had torn her heart asunder. I dreaded that she would suffocate in that tempest of agony. But she turned from my attempts to soothe, and wept on until her strength was utterly exhausted. She did not rise from her bed until several weeks were past, and then she was more like a corpse than a living woman. The bloom never came back to her cheek, the smile to her lip, or the lustre to her eye. She spoke not of the day, or the cause to the commencement of her illness—and I did not presume to ask any explanation. On the commencement of her illness I had taken rooms adjoining hers, and now I frequently heard her walking to and fro in her chamber a great portion of the night. It was a clear, starry midnight, one of those holy seasons when the earth is dark, and the atmosphere too transparent to be luminous, when we look away into the clear ether, and almost comprehend the immense distances to the bright distant disc of the innumerable stars. I was sleepless, and stood at my casement looking out upon earth and heaven. There was a knock at my door. I turned and admitted the Lady Anna. Pale she was, as usual, but she seemed unusually agitated. I besought her to be seated, and to honor me with her commands.

“‘Godolphin,’ she said, solemnly, ‘tell me the name and title of the man whom we saw seated beside the Princess L——?’

“‘Surely his name is no secret,’ I said; ‘all Europe knows him—he is king of ——.’

“‘Swear this to me,’ she said.

“‘Poor lady,’ I ejaculated mentally, ‘she is deranged’—but I swore the oath prescribed.

“‘Now listen,’ she continued; ‘this king, under an assumed name, sought me in my seclusion, won my love—my _love_, I say,—and we were privately married, more than two years ago. I need not repeat the sophistries by which he persuaded me that he had imperious reasons for a temporary concealment, reasons which I should one day know, and which I must approve. My mother’s illness rendered it easy to elude her suspicion, and when you came, we still kept our secret. He was generally absent from Pisa, on pretence of business—but I saw him frequently. I was expecting a visit from him daily when we met him on that fatal walk. I have not seen him since, though he has implored an interview, if but for five minutes. I will never see him more.’ And a wail of anguish, which no words could utter, struggled up from her broken heart. I essayed to speak. ‘No, no,’ she said, ‘I have not finished. I am dead to the world. Let it be understood that I lie with my mother. Would to God it were so, indeed. You will serve me. I know you will. Provide for me, then, a retreat, where none who ever knew me may hear of me again. I have contemplated death—suicide; but I will live to weep, and pray, and suffer.’

“Oh, what words for my ear were these. I felt to thank heaven that the darkness enabled me to hide my emotions from her, for my suffering was terrible. I felt light and hope, earth and heaven, at once annihilated. When she declared that she had loved another, my heart died within my bosom. It has never since throbbed as it was wont to throb at every thought of her. I no longer loved, but existence had become a void. The fair temple of my youth, with its idol, and all its beautiful treasures, was at once swept away, and the dark flood rolled sluggishly where my joys had been. I felt, not agony, but desolation; not regret, but cold despair. But I would live for her sake—she was miserable, and I could assist her.

“Then I bethought me of this ancient castle, which had been a stronghold of my ancestors, and had fallen greatly to decay. I offered to repair it, and bring her hither. She thanked me warmly, and I came and commenced my repairs. I had always loved this glorious Highland scenery, where the mountains lie forever watching the reflection of their magnificent features in the mirroring lake below, as if watching the lights and shadows on their rugged brows, and the graceful floating of the tresses of yellow broom, bound and crowned with the dark wreathing heather, shining with sunlight, or gemmed with drops of dew, or the diamonds of the summer shower. And when the summer is old, and like a forsaken woman, casts her ornaments from her with showers of tears and heavy sighing; the mountains seem to watch the fall of the verdure on the bosom of the waters, until they see the splendor of the wintry stars forming a diadem around their snow-crested heads. These scenes of sublime beauty, I judged, were well calculated to soothe the tumult in both our spirits; and here, where the breezes whisper to each other across the deep, narrow dell, I formed a little paradise of fruit trees and glowing shrubs, and furnished these rough halls with the sumptuousness of a palace; and then I brought Lady Anna and her infant daughter home. To my household I presented her as my sister, and a widow; and their Scottish hearts received her with a ready sympathy, and respected a sorrow which seemed to them so natural and commendable. To those who had known her, I said the Lady Anna is no more. The loss of her mother broke her gentle heart. My heart was dead, yet I regarded her as a dear sister; and to this day she knows not that I ever felt more for her than a brother’s love. And now that we were all the world to each other, I enjoyed a calm that seemed very like happiness. Her child, the little Lady Adela, soon engrossed our warmest affections; she was a sweet and lovely child, but no way like her mother. She had clear blue eyes, fair curling hair in rich abundance, a complexion of transparent pink and white, and though delicately formed, she was plump and exquisitely moulded. Her intellect was wonderful, yet she was a simple-minded, loving and confiding child. She grew to be a part of my being. Her mother hardly loved her more than I. Her education was our delight—she was so docile, so quick to receive instruction. Earth hath been graced with very few like her. The beautiful bud became a flower, yet she seemed more pure and spiritual than in her childhood.

“‘If I might ask one boon for my child,’ said Lady Anna, one evening, as we were speaking of Lady Adela’s future prospects. ‘If I might obtain one boon for her, I would pray that she might never feel the pulse of human love.’

“Poor Lady Anna, her experience had been bitter—and mine, I could have answered, Amen, to her prayer. But a lone traveler craved hospitality at our postern. He was handsome, noble, and virtuous. Adela learned to reply to the love which grew up in his heart for her. It was a dreadful trial to our doating hearts, but we gave her, with our blessing, to her beloved, and put bonds upon our feelings, when she bade a sobbing farewell, and left her own dear home for a splendid station in the queenly city of Edinburgh.

“The knowledge that she was happy in her new home, was a sweet solace to our loneliness; and when, in less than two years, she came with her fine young boy to spend the time of the summer heat with us, we were supremely happy. Womanhood had not dimmed the gladness of her heart, or withered the flowers of her childish glee and affection. Wisdom had come to her, unaccompanied by sadness.

“Toward autumn her young husband arrived, to spend a few days and take her with him home. There was a gay party assembled in these old halls, and for days there was feasting, and mirth, and music, excursions on the hills, and parties on the water. It was a lovely afternoon in the fitful September. The two boats were manned, and the barge provided with implements and tackle for fishing, took the gentlemen on board, while the ladies accompanied them in the lighter and more elegant sail-boat. They shoved out from the shore, with music and shouts and laughter. We wished them a joyful sail, and turned to our avocations of preparation for the evening meal and entertainment of the party. We sighed as we thought how soon we should be left to the old silence and loneliness. Our preparations were completed—the day was drawing to a close. I found Lady Anna at this very casement, looking out upon the lake, watching for the return of our beloved. I took the station I now occupy, but my eyes rested on my silent companion’s face. She did not look at me, and I gazed unchecked until the past, with all its shadows rose up around me. I trembled in every nerve, and felt the waters of the swollen heart rise tingling to my eye-lids. I knew not what possessed me, but I felt as if I must kneel before her, and confess all the passion, the presumption of my youth.

“‘Look! look!’ she cried, ‘they come!’ and far up at the point of yonder noble bluff, I beheld the boats heading toward home. Just at that moment came a low growl upon a fitful gust, and instinctively we turned our eyes toward the west. Black, billowy clouds were surging and heaving above the mountain crest like a stormy ocean, and down that rugged gorge the dusky masses of mist came turmoiling like giants wrestling in the death-struggle, and the winds groaned and shrieked adown the defile.

“Lady Anna grew white—I had seen her so once before; my own heart grew heavy with a pain like death.

“‘Oh, God! Oh, merciful God!’ came from Lady Anna’s still lips, in accents of heart-piercing agony. If they could but outstrip the storm; if they could but near the coast before it leapt upon the lake. It was evident that they knew the danger, and exerted all their powers; the boats glided swiftly over the smooth, black surface of the water, which lay as if concentrating itself to meet the onset of the aerial force. Our eyes turned from the boats to the upheaving storm; our souls were aghast in the horrible suspense—fear—dread—extreme terror—held hope in a throttling grasp; more than our lives were at stake, and we were powerless—utterly powerless to retard the danger or aid the souls in peril. We could only stand here, and gaze with wide-open, glazed eyes upon the scene. Oh, I think I see it now re-enacting before me. The light sail-boat led in the race, and with our telescope we could distinguish our child standing upright in the bow, her face raised, as if watching the portentous clouds, and her white hands clasped over the black mantle that covered her bosom. At the tiller of the barge stood her husband, while the sturdy rowers strove to keep pace with the flight of the sail-boat; and so they sped on to escape, if possible, the tornado which lay growling like a couchant lion, ready to leap in its irresistible fury upon them. The dark billows of the cloud lay high above yon mountain wall, but for a time they seemed to make no progress, or rather to sink back upon themselves. How our hearts panted and stretched toward our treasures, as if we would draw them from the peril. As they were coming from that point, and the storm rising over that eminence, you will perceive that the wind would take them broadside, and thus greatly increase their danger. You see that all along the opposite shore there is no safe landing place, and they were far out on the lake when they first perceived the clouds rising above the heights. Then there was no time for thought or reflection, and they seemed to imagine that their only chance was to reach the shelter of these heights before the wind should intercept them.

“During the temporary lull of the storm, a trembling angel, almost hope, hovered over us. Our souls went out toward the mariners, every dip of their oars fell upon our distended hearts, striking thence a quick gasp, and a pulse of pain—and thus we stood, the gathering darkness falling like a mountain veil between us and the objects of our anguished solicitude.

“Oh, God! what a blaze of lightning rent the gloom, and pierced, like a shower of flashing poniards, soul and sense; while a clang, as of the rending to atoms of an iron mountain, stunned our ears. Then the storm spread its black wings, and sprang like a fierce vulture from the heights, leaving a line of lurid red between it and the horizon. The crisis was at hand. Were the boats within the shelter of the land? They were nearing our side of the lake rapidly. We could not breathe. At that moment our Adela, who had not moved since we first descried her, lifted her hands to heaven with an expression of the most agonized despair—and now the doom fell. With the rush and roar of a cataract the wind came down upon the lake. It met the water _between us and the boats_. The spray went up to heaven. Lady Anna sunk back with a shuddering groan. The lake was a tumult of warring elements. Fierce winds, waters, thunder and wrestling flames contending in a horrid turmoil. I turned away and sunk upon my knees beside the mother, whose heart felt upon its quivering chords the death-agony of the dear one who was perishing in the boiling waves. My soul was benumbed with horror; I had no word of hope for her, and there was no consolation. I lifted her form and held her to my heart, with only one wish, that then and there we might die together.”

The tremulous voice of the old man ceased, and for a while he wept like a stricken woman. At length he resumed.

“They were lost—all lost. A few fragments of the boats was all we ever found. That storm made many mourners beside ourselves. Widows and orphans, young girls and aged parents, wept the buried in the water. We all sought to sustain each other; and Lady Anna and myself were sustained not merely by a submissive dependence upon Jehovah, but by the sense of a responsibility toward our lost Adela’s infant son. He has been our care, our hope, our pride. You can testify that there are few equals for Malcomb Douglas—that is his baptismal name. His father’s name and title may one day be borne by him, and receive more honor than, noble as they are, they can confer.

“I know not why I have told you these things, except it be that our identity may not perish. I will give you on this card our real names, and, as in the revolutions of nations, the forgotten are remembered, and the lost found, you may sometime hear of us honorably, or read our story on the half fabulous page of national history. But I thought not of these things. When I saw the gay young party put off an hour ago, it brought the past so vividly to my mind, that I felt constrained to tell you how the pure may be deceived—how the virtuous may suffer, how the noble may shrink into obscurity, how the world’s idols may be forgotten; and, most of all, that nobility, education, moral greatness and purity, with all gentle virtues and all lofty aspirations, may exist in retirement, unknown and unregarded by a world that should be proud to wear them as jewels upon its bosom. But He that doeth all things well, will reward every man according to his works. So let it be.”

I thanked the old gentleman amid the tears that I could not restrain; and he expressed his gratitude for my sympathy.

I knew not what effect his story wrought upon me, but I forgot both my love and my jealously; and heard the announcement of Charlotte M’Lane’s engagement to Harry Heath with real pleasure. I left the hospitable mansion of my illustrious host and hostess with deep regret, impressed with the dignity of virtue, and the importance of a firm trust in the goodness and wisdom of the Ruler of the Universe. I have since heard the name of young Malcomb heralded by the voice of fame, and trust that his career will be one of unparalleled usefulness and splendor.

* * * * *

THE TWO PATHS.

BY MRS. MARY B. HORTON.

The Lord of all things planted a garden at the foot of the hill of life. It was like a flowered plain. The heavens wore a gentle smile, and the earth was fresh and green, with no deadness of stalk or stem upon flowers or trees. The shout of glad, young voices made its music as birds made the music of the air, and merry troops danced with a lightness peculiar to that garden of joy, over the soft yielding turf from which no serpent’s sting ever came forth.

Sweet fountains gushed up in shady places, where the happy ones rested from their play, and beautiful vistas opened on every side, formed of bright garlands, which fell on the brows of the childish throng like crowns. Through the clustering branches of ever-budding trees the bright light glanced, excepting when a transient cloud passed over, leaving dew-jewels sparkling in the sun.

This was the garden of infancy—those clouds the fleeting sorrows of childish hearts which leaves the tear upon the smiling cheek. The fountains in the shady places were those of sinless memory—the vistas were Hope’s.

Angels on busy wings swept over the beautiful place, watching, as messengers of the Great Throne, the doings of these young creatures, who in the garden of love and peace knew not the roughness of the road which lay beyond its mossy boundaries. From time to time these angels caught a sweet one from the dancing crowd, and bore it tenderly to the bosom of the “Well Beloved.” And such were blessed; for they had only known the joy of their garden home—their feet had never toiled through the dust of that hilly way rising beyond the plain. A line of glistening wings was thus kept up between the garden and the Throne, by the passing up of angels with their beautiful gifts; and the groups thus broken in upon were taught to grieve not for sweet companions so well beloved of Heaven, so that their sunny sports went on with but a momentary shadow.

The gentle lamb and heavenly dove nestled against the breast of fondling little ones, or answered to their call as if their mate’s. With Hope’s garlands on their brows, and their feet sandaled with flowers, the dancers counted not time, as those on the outer hill counted it, by hours, but let it make its annual rounds unnoticed, until the period arrived for them to leave the pure retreat. Time was to them no gray-haired tyrant with a warning hour-glass, but a kind friend laden ever with roses and smiles. It beckoned them to play, it beckoned them to rest, and they saw not the different face and burden it sometimes bore until they had gone out beyond the gates.

Upon a mossy bank in this garden of infancy lay an infant boy. Its chubby, dimpled hands played with the flowers of innocence and joy that grew luxuriantly in that pure atmosphere. The light of that blessed place danced in his eyes, and its sweet music was succeeded by his tiny shout. While he thus lay, a little girl stole out from a playful group, and gliding to his side threw her fond arms around him and kissed his beaming face with the quick love of a warm heart. The baby pressed his face against his sister’s with an answering lovingness, and passed his fingers through her curling hair with a low laugh of happiness, echoed with the maturity of two summer’s longer life, by the little one bending over him. How holy a thing was the love they bore each other, and how stainless were their souls as each answered to the other in purity and joy. The angels rested on their clear wings to write upon their foreheads “of such is the kingdom of heaven,” and rejoiced that they were appointed guardians over them, to whisper good when evil tempted them upon the outer hill.

Some of the older ones even in that peaceful place looked out upon the hill with longing for the journey. They saw the continuous band of youths and maidens going out from the garden gates, and longed to reach the age which was to free them from the gentle laws of their garden nursery. Oh, how sad was the reasoning which had led to this desire—how sure the pleasures of that sweet place they dwelt in—how bitter might be the anticipated delights of the Hill of Life. The gay crowds hurrying up the hilly way seemed in the distance like a merry company with no care or pain. Their shouts and songs came on the breeze like the gushings of sunny hearts knowing no cloud. The listening ears of the waiting ones inside the gates heard not the sighs which broke from gifted spirits, they caught not the silent prayer of the weary and broken-hearted.

The baby boy had grown to take his place in the line of youths who were to leave forever the home of childhood and its innocent delights. His sister was by his side, and on their dear young heads an invisible hand was laid blessingly, as they stepped out upon the dusty way. They had left their home of joy, they were to walk evermore upward, upward, through unknown snares and by the borders of dreadful depths. Yet their hearts beat hopefully and strong, and the first day’s travel was so easy and so new, that they mourned not for the childish sports of the garden left behind, and gayly looked forward to their life-long pilgrimage.

Flowers they found in their way somewhat resembling those their infant hands had plucked, and sweet voices fell upon their ears which sounded quite as holy as those in their first home. They talked together of the teachings they had so often listened to, of the warnings they had been impressed with, as the time drew near for them to leave the garden gates. In their young wisdom they believed their guardian teachers had looked with perverted eyes upon the travelers of the hill, and with over earnest zeal had given them too dark a character. They had spoken of serpents hidden beneath the grass—of snares like a mine laid out under flowery beds. They had painted false smiles, and spoken of honeyed words spoken to deceive. They had prayed that the guileless travelers would allow themselves no chain which might seem to be of flowers, but would prove to be of iron, eating deep wounds into the soul. What could they have meant by all these pictures and all these prayers? The way had been as yet but short, yet surely as they looked up, the same appearance of ease and joy broke on them. They still walked hand in hand, still loved such flowers as they loved in the plain beneath, still looked toward the Throne at morning and at night as their eyes had ever been led to do. Their ministering angels still followed them on wings of joy, because they walked so pure and lovingly, and would have spread their brightness round them to have kept off evil forever, if their Lord had not given to these travelers of the hill a work for their own hearts, which, if “well done,” would meet with a most bountiful reward. Prayer, in time of danger from a false step or slippery way, would bring their willing aid, but prayer must first be warmly breathed to show a holy faith.

On, on they went, guarding their days by morning adoration, and bringing by their evening supplication sweet rest to their feet and beautiful visions to their hearts. They had been told that at a certain point two ways met, of which they must choose the right or left. And soon they found themselves surrounded by a hesitating crowd at the entrance of the paths. The narrow one had for its guide-post the holy book of their Lord, with opened page, from which, in golden characters, spoke forth—“The way to Heaven.” At the entrance of the other was a figure, the body concealed with flowers, but the face exposed. The eyes were of ravishing delight, and the mouth dropped musical and melting tones, which to that company of inexperienced youth seemed like the sweet promises of heavenly joy. She told of beautiful and social scenes, prepared in lovely places all along the roomy and cheerful way she would lead them through. She spoke with smiling lightness of the dull routine of duties and unexciting pleasures of the path which so few choose, and pointed gayly with tempting finger to the laughing crowds treading the broad way of which she was the queen—and what a queen! So fair of face, so full of joyousness, so innocent of speech. She spoke of the Great Father who was the lord of all upon that hill, and with delicious earnestness pleaded for the hearts of that young company, because their lord would not condemn their feet for dancing on the flowers she would strew along their path. He would not be so cruel-hearted as to frown upon His children’s joy. Oh! how the company of angels, who hovered round, watched for the decisive step of the young creatures they had followed from the garden walls. Some had hid their faces in their bright wings for grief, when they had seen the cherished beings of the innocent home choose the left hand path which their heavenly natures knew would lead to Death. Yet, with faces veiled, they followed the deluded ones, in hopes to win them back before they strayed too far.

And what was our brother’s and sister’s choice? The boy looked wistfully toward the glittering throng, which danced and laughed amid the wreaths and brilliant artificial light of the broad way, but followed his sister’s guidance toward the path whose light was from the Throne. The angels, whose care they were, rejoiced, and followed with a low song of triumph the holy travelers.

The boy, through love for his dear friend, murmured not for a time at the calm and peaceful way they trod. But his imagination, naturally so vivid and bright, had nothing to revel in as they walked upward side by side with holy men and pure, who sung the praises of the Good King as they rose toward the crown. This crown glittered upon the summit of the hill as a promise of eternal rest and joy for the unmurmuring and patient traveler.

But the heart of the young man became listless; and his eyes became dull to see the lustre of the crown as it shone fast by the Lord’s high throne. From discontent he went to murmuring. His sister and his angel whispered loving words to the clouded heart, and sought earnestly to win it back to feel the beauty of the journey they had commenced so joyfully. But no! the distant sound of mirth, the distant glitter of fine sights, and spectacles appearing so ingenious and rare, caught his wandering senses at every turn. His quiet journey became a burden to him. His sister’s face became a sad reproach. The crown looked dim upon the summit. To his changed eye the holy men and women walked like monks and nuns in solemn company. His excited fancy would make it seem injustice that the Lord who made the way, should have had its pavement so hard and rough, when the broader path was carpeted with flowers, which could yield to the bounding foot so gently, and ever be so fresh.

More and more the prospect changed to his changed eyes. The ascent now was steep and wearisome, and oh! how the sad, sweet face of his garden friend, the sister of his childhood passed on the mossy banks, how it looked upon him longingly, as if the pilgrimage even in the narrow way would be half sorrowful if he went not up with her to the end. His angel shone from her eyes its look of pleading, but all were lost upon the evil-awakened youth, who saw no stars in that pure heaven, no guide in that pleasant way worth following. More and more as his heart gave up the treasures of its infancy, the revel of the other path broke on his ear. His eyes gazed oftener on the distant groups than on his sister’s face, or the high crown. That sister prayed, besought with tears that he would let his guardian spirit guide him, that he would call upon the messengers of the Throne to disarm the tempters who were changing his heart. And yet he, the object of that fond one’s watching thus far upon the road, he who in sweet babyhood had been her pride and hope even in her own young years, he turned and left her! Turned and fled, not daring to look back and catch another glimpse of her pale face! he fled, and how short was now the way to Pleasure’s arms; the gain of long year’s travels how quickly lost. He stood once more where the two paths met, and looked a moment on the plain below, where yet was green the home of his childhood’s innocence. For a moment came the memory of the spirits he had carried from it as inmates of his soul. He gazed upon its quiet loveliness, and sighed in his bewilderment and guilt, for the season of his infancy, that he might be again a child and play amongst those garden flowers.

It could not be! And sealing his brow with the stamp of determined hardihood, he turned from the retrospect of his boyhood’s purity, and gave his hand to the fair-faced queen, who welcomed him more gladly that he came from the rival path.

How wildly did he enter now into all the scenes of that gay place! He sought to drown his angel’s whisperings in revels, and at first he succeeded well, for the parties he joined were of those, who, like himself, were neophytes to the reigning queen, and were not yet quite slaves to the hideous form so shrouded in flowers. But the innocent joyfulness grew more evil at every step, for in this gay kingdom there was no restraining power, and the poor misguided youth who had left the quiet walk where every onward step induced to purity, now saw the ruin which came by unsuspected agencies upon the hearts and forms of these thoughtless travelers. Guilt grew more familiar at every turn. He could see that his companions grew old before their time, and almost imperceptibly changed their careless mirth and slight indulgences to wicked merriment and love for evil practices, which they would have once despised.

Palaces rose up on every side, filled with sparkling drinks, which drowned the voices of grieved angels, and gave exulting life to the dread demon of Human Will. The laughter which had come faintly to his ears when he was by his lost sister’s side, like the sound of a joyful stream, now was like a raging river, wild and ruinous. Gay women fluttered on with “Vanity” written in jewels upon their foreheads, and the beauty of their girlhood lost under the weight of fashion’s charms. How the heart of that lost wanderer turned to his sister’s memory, and read there how chaste, how simple, how lovely she walked, unmindful of the garments her body wore if her spirit shone in the garb of holiness.

He looked toward the path she was now treading alone, and could tell her untiring step, and see the light of her high brow as it was at times uplifted to the throne—praying for him! Those gay women looked like painted sepulchres as he turned back; and though they shook their jeweled fingers at him playfully, and tried to win his admiration by outward charms, his heart compared them with the gentle presence of his sister in the heavenly path, and it learned to lothe the beings whose souls were unadorned and dark. They had been beautiful, but had lost the roses of their cheeks, the jewels of their eyes, the sweet sign of modesty upon their brow, and now owed Art a debt which grew with every year.

As he went on he found corners of the road darkened by groups of human forms with faces of spirits from the cave of darkness where the fire burns. They watched with starting eyes the ivory balls they rolled, or painted characters they handled, as if they were the chances of Heaven; and when their gold was lost would start up furious, and commit some dreadful deed upon themselves or their companions. Disgusting pictures of indulgence and debauchery in every shape, now met the almost frenzied eye of the regretful wanderer. Carelessly besotted feet trod the uncertain borders of the frightful precipice, or with uneven step stalked on toward the gulf of hopelessness. The light, which had been so dazzling at the commencement of the way, had been put out, and darkness would have been over all that crowd, if the mercy of the Throne had not let its light fall upon the guilty ones, that, if they would, they might see their passage back to the holy way.

Oh! had that wanderer tasted all the joy he fancied could be drunk of in that broad path? Had the glittering scenes been real? Had the promises of the syren been fulfilled? Had his heart been satisfied with the friendship, his feet with the flowers of that fair-seeming place? Oh, no! His brain was reeling with the discordant sounds, his senses were confused, his heart was agonized by the cries of rage, and complaints breathed bitterly against the Throne. Oh! could he dare brave the sneers of his companions and turn back: Could he, distressed and weakened, run the gauntlet of that deriding crowd! Oh no he had no courage left for such a trial. He knew the purity of his brow was gone, the freshness of his heart; and how, if he ever should escape from that dreadful way, would his sister’s eye rest on him?

As he thought of this, he turned toward the path of her calm pilgrimage, and saw a greater light as a halo round her pale brow, and her pleading eye still turned upward toward the Throne! His angel gently whispered “fly!” And as he stopped upon his course to listen, he felt the pressure of the hand which had been laid upon his head as he went out from the garden-gates, and his strong heart came back! His feet forgot their weariness, his eye grew large with hope, his spirit threw off its cowardice, and with a loud, clear voice, which his sister caught as a joyful answer to her prayers, he declared himself a prodigal, and entreated all that graceless company to follow him to peace and happiness.

Oh! how many accents there were in the answering shouts that filled the echoing way. Despair sent up its dreadful note—shame and defiance added their discordant tones. From the deep caves of guilty sorrow came a wail, and from lone places where the body diseased with crime lay suffering, a cry arose which chilled even the polluted blood of those who wandered in guilt so near.

None answered the returning one with like repentance, although from the heavy eyes of some a faint desire for a moment gleamed, to flee with him from misery. But the laugh which rung so loud, and with such a mocking echo of contempt, put out the spark which might have kindled to such a glorious blaze, and he turned alone upon his backward way. And now fingers were pointed at him, laughter followed him—his garments were laid hold of to arrest his steps. Many who sighed for his courage, and envied him the way his face was turned, laid stumbling-blocks before his feet, to turn them back—to gain a triumph over him would make their own depravity seem less dark. But they could not conquer him. His angel strengthened him, and he kept the name of the Great Lord upon his lips and in his heart, and so he made his way free from the striving hands and tempting wiles of his companions, and joyfully reached once more the side of his sister in the upward path.

* * * * *

THE RAIN.

BY T. A. SWAN.

The birds sing gayly in their bowers,
And we can gather what they sing;
But what, falling ’mong leaves and flowers,
What is the soft rain whispering.

I cannot understand their word—
Some tale those bright drops tell, I know,
For the corn leaves move as if they heard,
And barley fields nod to and fro.

The lily turns its chalice up
To catch the legends as they fall,
And on the blue-bell’s tiny cup
Rings many a fairy festival.

The brooklet o’er the meadow spreads,
And then, like elves, they dance and sing;
And clovers hang their blushing heads,
Like little creatures listening.

It is some good thing they relate;
For when the cloud has passed the sun,
The green fields smile with joy elate,
As the world had put new glory on.

And so, to me, they chant a strain
Uncomprehended by the sense,
But when they dash the window-pane,
I feel their soothing influence.

They lead me back to some bright scene,
Some fair spot in the shadowy past,
Which glows like the broad moon’s silver sheen
Far off upon the waters cast.

They ope the pleasant gate of dreams,
And from the phantom-world beyond,
How visions bright, in golden streams,
Like gift from an enchanter’s wand.

Kind dreams of sweet imagining—
Of the maiden fair shall love me well;
But mystic are the strains they sing,
Who she may be they will not tell.

And through the Future’s golden aisles,
They bear me up on angel wing;
And many a truth I’ve learned the whiles
From the bright rain softly whispering.

* * * * *

WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.

BY PROFESSOR FROST.

THE CAROLINA PARROT.

This bird is the only species of Parrot found native in the United States. It not only abounds in the rich and flowery groves of our Southern States, but is found in great numbers among the prairies of the West, on the banks of the Ohio and the Mississippi, and even along the shores of Lake Michigan. Most Parrots droop or die in cold weather; but the Carolina Parrots are frequently seen during a snow-storm, flying about in flocks, and by their loud cries seeming to enjoy the consciousness of their own hardiness. But though a resident in our Western States it is rarely seen east of the Alleghanies. Its favorite food—the seeds of the cockle-bur—abounds in the wilds and forests of the West. Amid the rich alluvial soils, shaded by dense forests of sycamore and buttonwood, or covered with impenetrable swamps, the Carolina finds a secure and delightful retreat. Here also are found the seeds of the cypress and hackberry, and the beech-nut; while the soil abounds with those formations known as licks, the salt of which is much relished by the Parrot. The Carolina possesses a full share of that love for destructive mischief which appears indigenous to his genus. In the natural state it cares little for apples, if other food be at hand, but it delights to mount an apple-tree, and twisting the fruit off one by one to strew it over the ground.

The Carolina Parrot is about thirteen inches long, and twenty-one across the spread wings. The head is red, the neck a rich yellow; and in other parts of the body these colors are sprinkled with considerable profusion. The remaining plumage is mostly a bright green, changing to yellow, with light blue reflections. The feet and bill are either a cream or flesh color, and the claws and shafts of the large feathers black. The plumage of the female differs very little from that of the male; but the young birds undergo several changes of color before assuming the dress of their parents.

In captivity this bird appears to lose little of its sprightly habits, although it never becomes entirely reconciled to the cage. Unless closely watched it will gnaw and break through the wood of its cage, and twist the wires, for the purpose of escaping. On the whole, it is a pleasing companion, being in a great measure destitute of the love for clamorous screaming which distinguishes most of the other Parrots. Its usual food in the cage should be corn and beech-nuts, but if hungry it will eat apples, various kinds of seeds and berries.

Wilson in his American Ornithology gives the following interesting account of the Carolina Parrot, as seen by him in its native haunts in the West: