Chapter III (8)

Then, since around your Real
My Fancy deigns to fly,
Keep up to my Ideal,
Or you are false as I.

* * * * *

STANZAS.

Harm not the living—on the stage of life
Play well your parts, that when the bell shall toll
To note your exit, ye shall hear the strife
Of echoing plaudits, and the deafening roll
Of music round you. O! across the soul
Will come the freshness of its dewy Spring;
And ye shall leap toward the destined goal,
And snatch the victor’s garland; while there ring,
Through the arena, shouts of kindly welcoming!

So live, that when upon the voiceless air
Shall come the echoes of your passing bell,
From the lone minster, they to you shall bear
Sweet thoughts and pleasant memories—the dell
Where grew the violets, shall, like a spell,
Rise up before your spirit, and the rill
That wantoned with them, laughing, ere it fell
For very joy adown the craggy hill—
And so your dream shall end—awake in Heaven ye will.

* * * * *

THE REVEALINGS OF A HEART.

BY D. T. KILBOURN.

“Oh, Ellen! is not this a most enchanting prospect! How lovingly those little islands rest their grassy heads upon the tranquil bosom of the deep blue waters! And those distant sails—how like beings of life and thought they seem, gliding so gracefully over its glassy surface. Indeed, when one views this noble edifice—these cultivated gardens—this lovely prospect—and inhales the cool sea-breeze wafted from the bosom of the mighty ocean—instead of the abode of the poor, helpless and forsaken, he would suppose it the resting-place of some of the great from yon proud city; who, weary of its noise and din, had retired hither to enjoy in sweet repose the accumulated wealth of years.”

“It is, indeed, a lovely prospect,” said her companion, gazing thoughtfully upon the scene before her—and as a pensive smile lit up her expressive features, she continued—“Invariably after visiting an institution of the kind, such a weight of sadness seems to oppress me, that my mind is little calculated to enjoy the beautiful.”

“Sadness, Ellen! What is it possible you can find here to make you sad! For, laying aside the beauties of nature, have we not seen with what care and neatness every thing is arranged—what a regard to comfort. And then not only are the physical wants of the inmates provided for, but the mental and religious seem not forgotten.”

“Mental, Lucy! Where the mental?”

“Why,” said her companion, slightly coloring, “did we not see those spacious school-rooms for the children, and the chapel, where public services are held every Sunday?”

“Why, Lucy, you cannot possibly suppose some eighty or a hundred children, placed under the care of one instructor, and that one, perhaps, taking no interest in his duties further than to secure a livelihood, as likely to derive much benefit from such a course of mental instruction. But,” added she, in a more lively tone, observing the embarrassment of her companion, “but, dear coz, those little ones formed not the burden of my thoughts—for children, you know, like flowers, though crushed to the earth by the pelting storm, the drops which weigh down their trembling petals, reflect but light and love. And however the foreshadowings of their destiny may creep upon the soul, it requires but one bright smile to chase all gloom away. Bless their sunny hearts! this earth would be a dreary waste without them. But, Lucy, what makes me particularly sad, is that whenever I visit a place of the kind, I see so little of joy and gladness; so much of sorrow and concealed despair expressed in the countenances of its inmates.”

“But, Ellen, is it not always thus wherever we meet the unfortunate?”

“This is precisely what oppresses me—to see their physical condition so materially altered, while the diseases of the mind remain unchanged. I may be, Lucy, like ‘the Charming Woman,’ talking of things which I do not understand, but still it is no _heresy_ for me to express my thoughts, at least to yourself, dear coz. It seems to me, could we but raise the veil which shrouds the human heart, and witness there its temptations, its hopes, its fears, its anguish; its struggles to free itself from the incubus of passion which weighs it to earth; its ardent longings for the soothing dews of Heaven to cleanse and heal its poisoned wounds; yes, could we but look into the heart of the veriest wretch that breathes, and trace throughout the searing hand of sin, and then into the depths of our own bosom, it might be that the only difference we should find between that blackened, noisome thing, and our own boasted purity would prove but the absence of temptation! And yet, when we see around us all the exertions which are made for the relief of the poor and distressed, the imperfection of the work seems not so much a lack of _will_, as a lack of knowledge of its cause. Had there been but one-fourth the time devoted to man’s spiritual, that has been to his physical being—to the habits, dispositions and sagacity of the inferior animals—or even to the investigation of unorganized matter—how different would have been the result.”

“Ellen,” said her cousin, “can you believe that _every heart_ craves the pure aliment of Heaven! Are there not some, who, place before them what inducements you might, would still prefer the grosser joys of earth?”

“Lucy,” answered she, while from her deep blue eyes beamed Heaven’s own purity—“look at those beautiful islands, like so many emeralds embedded in the deep. Those cultivated fields, rich with the burden of a coming harvest. Should the dews of Heaven cease to refresh them what would they present? One barren, scorching waste, from which the eye would turn with pain. Our body, too, deprive it of its proper sustenance, how soon would it sicken and die! And thus, if the soul be immortal (and surely it must be so, since it is a breath of Deity!) then must it ever crave the food of immortality, though the poor trembling wretch, led blindfold by his passions, may not know for _what_ he so longingly sighs, nor why his earthly pleasures, as soon as tasted, become a nauseous drug. But see, uncle is waiting for us.”

The foregoing conversation was held between the daughter and niece of a wealthy merchant of one of our populous cities. His daughter, Lucy, the younger by two years, possessed, together with great personal beauty and love for the beautiful, an active and playful imagination, which, like the first glad rays of the morning sun, that sport around the mountain’s brow, gilding its summits with a thousand varied hues, but never penetrate the depths below—while from Ellen’s stronger and more highly cultivated intellect (though possessing in a less degree the light attractiveness of morn,) there radiated the glowing and vivifying influence of its noontide intensity. Lucy, with her merry laugh, sunny smiles, and playful wit, was the delight of her father. Ellen was his support! She prepared his favorite dishes—she charmed him with her conversation, and soothed him with her song. Often was the old gentleman heard to exclaim—“Never was a man so blessed in his children! My merry Lucy forms the sunny spot in life—but my beautiful Ellen gives to life its charm.” Though few beyond her own domestic circle, and the poor, were ever heard to call her beautiful! To a common observer, or (in the circles of fashion) as she moved by the side of her lovely cousin, there appeared little in Ellen’s face or figure to call forth admiration; although, as mistress of a large fortune, flatterers were not wanting. But, as one gazed upon her animated countenance, as with witching kindness she endeavored to chase from the brow of her aged uncle, some cloud of anxious care, or bent over the couch of distress in the home of the wretched, and, with the soft low tones of sympathetic melody seemed to quell the raging storm in the bosom of the blasphemous inebriate, such a halo of purity seemed to encircle her broad, thoughtful brow, that the gazer turned away a better and a holier being.

The two girls had been standing on the eastern balcony of the Alms-house at ——, so absorbed that they noted not the flight of time, until Ellen’s exclamation, “Uncle is waiting for us,” aroused them.

“My children,” said Mr. Norton, as they descended, “I had begun to think you had quite forgotten me, and my rheumatism prevented me seeking you above stairs; but, now that you are here, Mr. Barker is going to accompany me through the insane department—you, Ellen, I know would like to go—but what says my little Lucy?”

“If you please, papa, I will wait here your return, and watch that noble steamer as she ploughs the wave, proud as it were of her happy burden, for from the music and the throng, I judge they have a pleasure-party on board. And as cousin Ellen seems determined to chase away all my fairy visions, do, dear papa, take her with you while I endeavor to recruit my spirits.”

Ellen, smiling, placed her arm within her uncle’s, and Mr. Barker led the way to a long low range, not far from the main-building.

Entering an apartment from which the light and pure atmosphere of heaven seemed banished, while the howls of the wretched maniacs (caged, like so many wild beasts, in their dreary cells, with naught upon which to rest their weary, lacerated limbs, but a heap of filthy straw,) struck upon the ear like the shrieks of the lost, causing the warm life-blood to recede from the heart and curdle in the veins. Mr. Norton, feeling the sudden grasp of Ellen, and noting her pallid countenance, said hurriedly—

“My dear, we had better not proceed; let us turn back.”

“Oh, no! dear uncle,” she exclaimed, making an effort at composure, “do not think of me, it was but a momentary weakness.”

As they proceeded from cell to cell, Ellen’s kind tone and pleasant smile, seemed to touch some hidden spring in the heart of these wretched beings, causing the jarring discordant strings to vibrate in momentary harmony. Each strove to withdraw her from the other, to listen to his tale of wo or imagined felicity. Some insisted that she was a being of superior order, sent to release them from their horrible confinement—until at last, overcome by her feelings, she leant for support against the frame of a half-open door that led to an inner apartment, lost in thought, and taking no cognizance of what passed around her.

From this abstraction she was aroused, by—“Madam, he has been dying these two days. I do not think he can last over to-night.”

“Who dying?” said Ellen, with a shudder, observing at the same time the coarse, hard-hearted looking female that addressed her.

“I thought you were looking at that gentleman,” pointing to a low cot. “Yes, as I said, he has been dying these two days; and a hard time we’ve had of it with his endless screeching and screaming for somebody to pray for him! But hard praying it would take, in my opinion, to do much good for the likes o’ him! Why, madam, you should have heard his raving—it would have made your hair stand on end!”

Ellen approached the bed. Before her lay, though pale and motionless as in the cold embrace of death, a being of God-like impress. His jetty locks flung from his upturned face, fell in loose masses on his pillow, displaying a brow which bore the stamp of high and lofty intellect: while drooping lashes of the same dark hue, pressing so heavily on his marble cheek, contrasted strangely with the deathly pallor of his chiseled features, on which were marked deep furrows—not such as wrought by either time or care, but mighty convulsions of the soul!

* * * * *

It was a dreary night in the month of November—the dark spirit-wind which had all day murmured in sullen grandeur the funeral dirge of the departing year among the leafless branches of the mighty forest, as the sun sunk in the cloudy west, and the gray mists of evening closed in around the cheerless earth, swept forth in strains louder and more terrific, until the naked branches of the towering oaks danced in wild glee, as it rushed past them howling along through the caverns of the giant mountains, and playing its rude gambols round their hoary heads, exulting in barbarian triumph over the gentler spirits of earth.

But though he had frightened the spirits of song from the woods, and chained the melody of the little brooks, banishing from the laughing fields the spirits of the flowers, and leaving them all barren and desolate—yet some of these sweet fugitives had sought a refuge in the habitations of man—for, in a neat little cottage, sheltered in the valley beneath, one might be seen peeping from the petaled cup of a snowy japonica. And as it looked forth from its pearly bed, when the storm had passed by, sweet delicious tones of a thousand lutes and harps, as touched by the spirits of the sunbeams and showers, burst upon the ear, filling the room with an atmosphere of strange delicious melody. Forth, on aerial pinions, floated the little flower-spirit, and lit upon the mossy sepals of a bursting rose-bud—beneath upon a downy couch lay a sleeping babe—above and around hovered a choir of cherub angels, some playing with its golden locks, and others whispering sweet words of peace and love, parting its rosy lips with a bright, sweet smile.

On wings of dreamy light was a shadowy form of beauty inconceivable! Its long, fair hair floated on the rosy air, while encircling its radiant brow was a chaplet of beautiful flowers, sparkling with dew drops fresh from heaven’s own bowers. This bright and glorious being, sent from the presence of the great “I AM!” to guard the footsteps of this precious child, just purified from every stain of earth in the regenerating waters of the sacred font—the image of its God restored; the object of a Saviour’s fondest love; a spectacle for angels and for men.

As the little flower-spirit gazed entranced upon this glorious scene, a tear drop seemed to sparkle in the angel’s eye. In mute surprise it left its mossy couch and lit upon a drooping floweret grasped within the sleeper’s tiny hand, and as it gazed to where the angel’s eyes seemed bent, there lay exposed to view that infant’s fluttering heart, pure and white as fresh fallen snow-flakes; and there, too, glistened the angel’s tear. And then was borne on zephyr’s wings, a sweet and sorrowful supplication to the Majesty enthroned on high, “Oh, Father! give to me the power to banish from this little heart those dark and dreary shadows that are hovering near: that I may bring it thee when life shall cease, all pure and beautiful as now it is, a trophy worthy the redeeming love of thy dear Son.”

And a voice, like the murmuring of many waters as they rush through the caverns of the deep, replied:

“My laws are fixed, immutable—man was made for glory, pure and holy—the breath which animates his clay is breath of Deity—it gave the power of a God, the power to _choose_ between the good and ill. Those dark forms you so dread, are the effects of laws transgressed; for it is written in my sacred word—‘the father’s sins are visited upon the child.’”

“But, oh!” still pleaded the angel-voice, “this babe is sinless, stainless, pure as those sweet flowers that wave upon the banks of Paradise.”

“He’s born of flesh, and like the Holy One of God, he’s heir to its temptations; but _Calvary_ is on earth, and one _free_, ardent sigh, heaved by that heart, and borne upon thy wings to Calvary’s height, can have the potency to banish far _all_ the contending powers of ill.”

The angel’s head bent low in silent adoration.

* * * * *

Four years had passed. ’Twas in the month of May. The earth was clothed in emerald-robe of varied hue, begemmed with sparkling flowers. The blushing trees poured forth their spicy fragrance on the hazy atmosphere, till it seemed heavy with their odorous breath. The social hum of a thousand insects—the carol of the feathery songsters, warbling forth their richest strains from the topmost boughs, rousing the wood-nymphs from their mossy beds to mingle their wild music with the laughing brooks that gurgle at the shaggy mountain’s base—all, all shone forth with the unrivaled splendor of the primal moon, when Nature first, awaked by God’s command, burst forth from chaos!

Such was the scene—well suited to the gambols which a fairy child held with his guardian-angel as they played along the flowery meads, like cherub spirits in the fields of Paradise. As the little one would tottle o’er some tiny shrub, the angel form with outstretched wing upheld him, and he rose unhurt, and onward ran, till charmed by the music of some little flower, he wondering stopped to pluck its shining blossoms, and as the golden petals of a buttercup were scattered in his grasp, the little spirit freed, beheld the rosy babe that erst had slumbered on the downy couch—the same sweet angel by his side. Full in the pathway of the innocent there lay a sleeping reptile—his tiny foot was raised to tread upon the venomed head—when lo! a gaudy butterfly, lured by the angel’s whisper, lit on his outstretched arm, and when from shrub to shrub it flew, the little rover turned in eager chase.

Time sped again. The sweet flower-spirits had, once more, sought the abodes of man. One rested on a nectared leaf of rose-geranium; a low moan roused it from its fragrant couch; and there before it lay the little child, and near, hovered the angel! But, as it bent over the restless sleeper, a cloud, like mists that veil the evening star, shadowed its beaming face: for, on the surface of that snowy breast, there sat a little elf, tracing dark characters. A rude blast whistling through the trees shook the loose casement. The dreamer woke—and, clambering from his little bed in haste, he sought his mother’s couch. “Oh! mother, mother dear!” he cried—her arms were forth to meet him—and as she clasped his trembling limbs, and folded him closer to her breast, he murmured, “Dear, dear, sweet mamma! let me sleep beside you! I’m afraid to stay in that cold, dark room alone!”

“My love,” answered a mild, sweet voice, “Arthur is not afraid—Arthur’s a little man!”

“But Arthur _is_ afraid to-night, mamma!” cried he, nestling still closer to her breast.

“’Tis nothing but the wind you hear, my love; the good wind, that blew down Arthur’s pretty kite when it had lodged in the high branches. And will it not displease papa, when he comes home, to find his little son afraid to stay alone.”

“Mamma, but will the wind not hurt me when it blows so hard?”

“No, my love; God will let nothing injure Arthur while he is good.”

“But Arthur’s not good! Arthur’s naughty. Arthur did not say his prayers!” And here, bursting into tears, he clung sobbing to his mother’s neck; while her fond arms encircling his form pressed him still closer to her heart in yearning tenderness. Then, in a voice so sweet, so gentle, she inquired, “Why did my love not say his prayers?”

“Arthur was thinking of his pretty new hat and coat, and so forgot them; and oh! mamma, I felt so badly here, (pressing his little hand upon his heart,) I could not sleep! and something seemed gone! and then it was so dark, I was afraid. Mamma, I will not wear them any more; they make me forget my prayers!”

“My love, the fault lies with yourself—not with your hat or coat. It was that you thought more of them than of the kind, good God, who gave them to you.”

“Mamma, if I say my prayers now, will God forgive me, and will he let me feel afraid no more?”

“Yes, love, God will forgive you, if you are sorry for forgetting them.”

He knelt—and while that cherub face, now bathed in pearly drops, was raised to heaven, he lisped, in accents sweet, a prayer to Jesus. Then, clasping his hands in joy, while a gleam of sunshine glistened through his tears, he cried, “Arthur’s not afraid now, mamma; he don’t feel alone any more!”

One fond embrace—and soon the little penitent was locked in slumbers sweet; while near, all radiant with the smiles of heaven, hovered his angel guide.

* * * * *

In an arbor, round which the jasmine and honeysuckle gracefully clung, mingling their spicy breath with the gentle zephyrs that fondly caressed their trembling leaves, sat a beautiful child, his curly locks resting upon his little arm, his whole soul mirrored in his deep, full eyes, as he gazed out upon the distant hills, now bathed in sun-set splendor. And, as he continued thus in childish thought to muse, the spirit of the flowers saw him encircled with an atmosphere of strange, mysterious beings; some, in their dull and heavy flight scarce rising from the earth, seemed busy linking chains to bind his spirit to their groveling appetites; others, with silvery wings sporting in sunbeams mounted high in air, while others still, of diamond light, to which the rays of mid-day sun looked pale, played round his noble brow.

As the bright guardian whispered sweet visions to the innocent, it saw the little flower-spirit gazing inquiringly upon the scene, and in a sweet melodious voice, it said, “The beings that you see belong to this fair child. Together, all, they form what man calls _life_! The beauteous form he bears is made of dust; and when this _life_ forsakes it, it returns to dust. Those beings creeping on the earth are ministers of flesh. They add to its pleasures, modify its pains, and by collecting other particles of dust together, construct for, feed, and clothe it. Every creature crawling on the earth partakes this life, these appetites. Their home is in the flesh, and with the flesh they die. In worldly language, these are called ‘The Passions!’

“Those pure, bright spirits, sparkling like the rays of morn upon the ice-capped mountains, gamboling in sunbeams, are formed to worship, to adore; to bask forever in the beauty, power, and wisdom of creation’s God. These are called ‘Moral Sentiments.’

“And those that cluster round his brow, beings of power, called ‘Intellect,’ encompass sea and land, penetrate the deep bowels of the earth, and mount on wings of light to the revolving spheres, tracing in all the wisdom, power, consistency of nature’s laws, then tracing all to God.

“See’st thou yon radiant vision clothed in light, reflecting every tint of joy in earth and heaven? Its name is _Love_. Its birth-place is the bosom of a God. ’Twas sent from the high court of heaven as help-meet to man’s _will_—that power which likens him to Deity. Together, they are ministering angel and guardian of the soul, while prisoned in its earthly tenement. While free, love bears the smiles of heaven reflected on its wings to the bright beings of the mind. These crave a still higher aliment—_knowledge of God_! Unsatisfied, they pluck the specious fruit which earth presents, and hug it to the heart, believing to have found the ‘Pearl of Price.’ In haste, ere they awake from the delusion, the Passions weave their dull and heavy chains fast round the Will, and with it, _this_ bright being’s dragged to earth. Love’s pinions may be clipped, its lustre dimmed, its beauteous form be shrouded in earth’s clay; but its celestial nature can’t be changed. Disfigure it, crush it to dust if you will, the glory of heaven will cling round it still, and hallow all on whatsoe’er it rests. And when this pure and holy vision forms a chain, linked by the will, uniting the brilliant powers of intellect with the bright spirits that adore, then is man god-like.

“Each of these orders leaves its impress on the heart for weal or wo. The heart, that great ‘Recording Scroll’ of Majesty Supreme.”

* * * * *

Again the dark spirit-wind held upon earth his desolating reign, and breathing forth his icy breath till all nature seemed locked in the frozen embrace of death; then, as at loss whereon to wreak his wrath, he sought the haunts of men.

All day long had he pelted his missiles of snow and hail on the defenseless heads of the weary pedestrian in the city of ——. The rich heard but his threatening war-notes, as he rushed madly, but harmlessly against the casements of their luxurious homes; but the trembling poor felt the full burden of his merciless ire, as he swept through the gaping crevices of their time-shattered dwellings. Thus, as he fled howling down a dark, dismal alley, a creaking-door flew wide at his approach, scattering the blaze of paper and shavings, over which a little girl was stooping. As she endeavored to close the resisting door, a feeble voice from the corner of the miserable apartment whispered,

“My son, have you returned?”

“No, mamma, it is not brother,” answered the sweet voice of the child. “It was the wind, and it has blown all my fire away.” Then seating herself by the low bed of her mother, and endeavoring to cover her little red feet with her scanty robe, she said, “Dear mamma, did you feel any warm when I made the fire?”

“I saw the blaze, my love, and it looked warm,” was said, in a low, hoarse tone; “but come, my Amy, lie down beside me, and I will try to keep you warm.”

Shrinking back from her mother’s arms, while the tears flowed down her wan little cheeks, she cried, “No, no, sweet, dear mamma, you are so sick and I am so cold; I told brother Arthur I would try to keep you warm till he came back.” And seeing the tears fill her mother’s eyes, she continued, “Dear, pretty mamma, _I_ am not cold, but Buhddy said I would make you sick; and when he comes home, he will bring me some bread, and take me in his arms to warm me”—and she continued blowing on her little cold fingers.

On rushed the spirit-wind along a public thoroughfare, making harsh music with the loose shutters and creaking signs, while the gas-lamps shone with a ghost-like light through the murky atmosphere. On a corner, heedless of the beating hail, stood a lad of some twelve years; near hovered an angel, as if to shelter him from the storm—but he heeded it not. Dark forms of temptation encircled him—hunger, want, and despair shone from his dark, full eyes, as he gazed eagerly into the countenance of each passer-by. Oh! could but one have heeded that imploring look—given but one word, one tone of sympathy, one mite from their abundance, what a host of dark spirits had been banished, what years of misery had been saved.

But no, each one hurried on to his own comfortable abode, leaving that young, untaught heart to battle with its fierce temptations. At length, as the pale faces of his mother and sister rose before him, he put forth his hand for charity. It was repulsed—and oh! with what withering blight that look sunk to his heart, while the dark spirits gathered round him closer and closer. But still his angel hovered near, as he rushed recklessly along the streets, until exhausted nature yielding, he sunk on the steps of an elegant mansion. The soft light peeping through the half-closed shutters, whence issued the sound of merry voices, recalled to mind the dear image of his once happy home. Again the voice of the angel echoed in his heart, “Here is plenty of bread, and here are kind hearts also!” One hand was tremblingly raised to the knocker, while the other was pressed upon his heart to hush its throbbings.

A liveried porter answered his feeble summons. Again was he repulsed, and with harsh words. Despair now seized his heart; and as the dying form of his mother, that mother, so dearly, fondly loved, his only parent and friend in the cold, dark world—and the little patient, suffering face of his sweet sister, whose smile was once so bright—as they rose before his reeling brain, he rushed toward the market-place. Here was bread enough—and should all that he loved die for one morsel? The angel whispered him a Father in heaven—but hunger, and love, and despair urged him on; and as the vender turned from the stand, he seized a loaf, and thrusting it beneath his threadbare coat, sped with the wings of lightning along the now nearly deserted streets until he entered a dark alley.

A few moments brought him panting to the abode described. Raising the latch, one bound brought him to the centre of the room. Amy uttered a cry of joy, and would have sprung to meet him, but her little limbs, weakened by long fasting, now stiff with cold, refused to support her trembling frame, and staggering forward, she fell upon the hard, damp floor, ere his outstretched arms could save her.

Clasping her to his heart, he cried, “Amy, dear—dear sister! don’t, don’t die! see, I have brought you bread!” and he seized the loaf, which had rolled upon the floor, broke, and pressed some to her quivering lips.

Raising her blue eyes to his, and clasping her little cold arms about his neck, she murmured, “Oh, Buhddy, you have been gone so long! and I have tried to keep dear mamma warm, and did not cry! The wind blew all my fire away—but I would not lie beside mamma, because I was so cold, and I would make her sick, you said. But mamma’s asleep now. I have been blowing on her cheeks to warm them, they are so cold. Shall we not wake her, Arthur, and give her some bread?”

“No, Sissy, while she sleeps, she don’t feel hungry and cold. She don’t know that we are cold! We will sit beside her and wait till she wakes.”

“Buhddy, don’t you think that God will send somebody to take care of dear mamma in the morning? I tried to pray when I was waiting for you, Buhddy. I know he will. I prayed for bread, and he gave you some.”

Every word of the little prattler struck like a dagger on the poor boy’s heart. Yet, as he saw how greedily she swallowed the crusts, carefully laying aside the soft part for her sleeping mother, and felt her warm breath upon his cheek, a wild delight seemed to fill his heart that he had procured the bread. And he dared not pray, for he recollected his mother had told him he must be sorry for his fault, ere he asked God’s forgiveness. Wrapping her little purple feet in part of his own scanty covering, and pressing her closer in his arms, her little prattle soon ceased, and she lay asleep upon his breast. With his precious burden he crept nearer to his mother’s side, and anxiously watched her pallid countenance as the uncertain rays of the glimmering taper, flitted across that form, once so beautiful, still so loved, so reverenced. Dark shadows seemed to gather round him, as he kept his lonely vigils; and at every gust of wind, fear, to which he had before been a stranger, crept chillingly along his veins. Some genial influence seemed to have left him. No more he raised his eyes in confidence above. All was lone, and dark, and desolate.

Thus wore on each weary hour; and, oh! how that young heart did yearn to pour forth its sorrows to his mother’s fond ear, that she might, at the throne of heaven, plead for his forgiveness. But when he gazed upon her tranquil slumber, and then around upon the cold, dark room, he could not wake her; it had been so long since she had slept. Perhaps she would be better in the morning; and at the thought, oh, what a thrill of joy shot through his heart.

Where was his angel-guardian? Had that fled? Oh no, it hovered near, though shrouded; and on the wings of the winds was borne a prayer so sad, so mournful, that the angels paused in their songs of bliss around the throne of God.

The morning-sun beheld the poor boy gazing in speechless agony upon the cold, stiff form of his dead mother, while the little Amy, to whom death was a stranger, endeavored by every fond endearment, to awake her from that long, long slumber.

It was the hour of midnight; not a cloud veiled the faces of the clear stars, as they looked down in their silent beauty upon the slumbering earth, throwing around it a holy light, such as emanates only from those spheres unknown.

One soft ray, borne upon the balmy breath of spring, stole through a casement, across the bed of a sleeping boy; and, as it rested on his downy cheek, one by one, the big tears started from his closed lids, and trembling upon the drooping lashes, dropped heavily upon his pillow, while in his feverish dreams, accents of love trembled upon his quivering lips, as he seemed endeavoring to clasp some cherished form.

Near by was his celestial guardian, but a hazy mist obscured it, rising from that child’s fluttering heart, from which the angel seemed trying to obliterate with its tears, the dark unformed images traced thereon.

The dreamer woke, and starting up, looked fearfully around; but as his eyes rested on his little sleeping companions, consciousness seemed to resume her throne. Creeping from his bed, he gazed awhile upon the shining stars, then throwing himself upon his pillow, wept long and bitterly. Again he went to the casement, and seemed watching for the coming dawn. Its gray robe at length appeared in the east, when hastily throwing on his clothes, he stole cautiously, as if fearful of awakening his companions, to a side door, and rapped. A harsh voice asked from within, “Who’s there?”

“It is Arthur,” answered the child. “Do let me see dear sissy, before they come to take me away.”

“There’s time enough—go to bed,” was the impatient reply.

“Oh, good Mrs. Williams, do, do let me see her alone, before they are all up!”

Whether the woman’s heart was touched, or that she foresaw she could not easily rid herself of his importunities, we know not, but rising and opening the door, she said, “You’re a very foolish boy, to be crying so about your sister! Like as not, you’ll never see her again after you leave here! But go down stairs, I’ll send her to you.”

A few minutes, and the little Amy was clasped in the arms of her brother. She was the same little fragile being that we saw watching beside the form of her dead mother; but there was a subdued shade of touching sadness in her sweet face, that showed the blight of sorrow was on her young heart. Twining her arms about her brother’s neck, and kissing the tears from his cheeks, she said,

“Dear Buhddy, don’t cry. I know that they are going to take you a long way from me; but don’t cry, dear Buhddy, I shall not be left alone long. I am going to dear mamma. Last night, when they told me they were going to send you away from me, oh, how I cried. I could not sleep; and then Sarah whipped me, because I kept her awake. I could not help crying—I tried not to cry; and then I dreamed there came such a beautiful little angel, and it sat down beside me, and told me not to cry, for it was going to take me home to dear mamma. You will go too, wont you, Arthur?”

“I dreamed, too, that the angels had taken you away; but you wont go, dear Amy, will you? I will grow to be a man; I will get money, and come and take you to a pretty home.”

“Will dear mamma be there, Arthur?”

“No, mamma’s dead!” and here again the tears filled his eyes.

“Buhddy—what is dead?”

“I don’t know; but they put her, when she was so pale and cold, and could not speak to us, into the ground; and they said that her spirit had gone to a good Father in Heaven, who made her die, and can do any thing. But I don’t think him a good Father, who let the fire burn up our beautiful home, and killed papa, and made dear mamma die of cold and hunger, (as that good man said she did, who cried so, when he came in and found her dead,) and let them bring us to this ugly old Alms-House.”

“Buhddy, but that pretty lady who came here the other day, and gave me those sweet flowers, said that God had taken mamma to his own beautiful home in the clouds, where there was no cold, and she could never die any more, and that we would go there too, if we are good. Dear mamma always said that God was good, Buhddy.”

Here Mrs. Williams entered, and told Arthur that the man was waiting for him. But seeing that he clasped his little sister still closer to his heart, she tore her forcibly from his arms, and bore her struggling form to another apartment.

* * * * *

“Who could have foreseen this, Mrs. Buckler? I wonder where the boy can be gone. I must certainly advertise him,” was said by a wealthy merchant, as he impatiently threw himself upon an elegant lounge, regardless of his lady’s favorite _poodle_, that lay upon its velvet covering, one eye half open, as if ruminating on the luxuries of his home, and of his importance in comparison with the rest of his canine race. From these cogitations he was aroused to a sense of danger by the descending form of his master. Giving a loud yelp, he endeavored to elude the honor, but not quickly enough to save one of his outstretched paws.

At this outcry, the lady sprung from her languid position, followed by her daughters, and folding the trembling dog to her bosom, exclaimed, “Oh dear, Mr. Buckler, you have killed my darling _Adonis_!” while the elder daughter flew to the bell and rang it violently. “Oh, Martha,” cried Mrs. Buckler, as the frightened domestic made her appearance, “for Heaven’s sake, make haste and bring the linen and hartshorn! I fear my sweet pet’s foot is broken.”

“This all comes, pa,” said Clementina, the younger daughter, “from your thinking so much of that _low boy_! Indeed, I feel relieved that he’s gone. To have a creature about one who has been the inmate of an Alms-House—it is so vulgar! And then one always feels afraid of being contaminated!”

“I do not know why you should be afraid of him, Clem; he’s a very gentlemanly little fellow, and I would not part with him for five hundred a year. The store has never been opened so early, nor things kept in such order since I have been in business, as during the time Arthur has been in it.”

“Why, papa, the cook told me to-day that he is in the habit of sitting up half the night studying and writing.”

“I don’t care what he did, nor how he sat up, as he was at the store, and all things ready betimes. And so provoking, to have him go away just at Christmas, when we have so much extra to do in the store, and so many bills to send out!”

“Do you think, my dear, it is possible he can have gone to the Alms-House? You know he left a sister there,” said Mrs. Buckler, looking up from her poodle, who had now been _be-hartshorned_ and _be-linened_ to her satisfaction.

“Oh, surely not—that is more than fifty miles distant. Beside, he has no money to pay his fare; and more than all, he does not know the way. But now, I think of it, he did want me to let him go there at Christmas; but I told him I could not spare him, and he had better not think of it. Beside, it was very unlikely he would find his sister there, as in all probability she had been taken out by some person before now.”

“Yes,” continued Mrs. B., “he seems to have had it on his mind; for last summer, when he saved our little Willy from drowning, and I in gratitude asked him what I should give him, he said he wanted nothing; but if I would only beg of you to let him go to see his sister. I told him I would; but I thought afterward, if he was going to remain with us, it were better he should give up such associations.”

During the above conversation poor Arthur was pursuing his tedious way along a rough frozen road toward the city of P——. In his hand he bore a little bundle, the hoarded treasures of months, destined as gifts for that dear, loved sister. The day had been beautifully clear, but as night approached, dark clouds hung over the earth, and the snow had already begun to fall. Still Arthur continued his lone and weary way; sometimes blinded by the snow, he would stumble into a rut, or fall upon the slippery ground, until completely exhausted, he leaned against a tree for support.

“Who goes there?” cried a rough voice—and a man, bearing an axe upon his shoulder, emerged from the gloom.

“It is a poor boy,” answered Arthur, “that’s going to P—— to see his sister.”

“To P——! not to-night, surely! that’s thirty miles from here. Where are you from, my lad?”

“From L——, sir,” answered Arthur.

“From L——! and have you walked all that distance to-day?”

“I have, sir,” was Arthur’s reply.

“Then you’ve walked far enough for one day, my boy; beside, you are on the wrong track. Come, go home with me, take a good sleep, and start fresh in the morning.”

“Could I get there, to-morrow evening?” asked Arthur, hesitatingly.

“You may not—but what then, there’s another day.”

“But to-morrow will be Christmas Eve!” here his voice began to tremble.

“Never mind, my lad, come with me, and if I find you a good boy, I will try to help you on the way.” And reaching forth, he grasped the unresisting hand of Arthur.

It was long since the poor boy had heard words of kindness, and there was something in the warm grasp of that hard hand, and in the tones of that coarse voice which recalled the visions of the past, and the tears silently coursed each other down his cheeks, as he involuntarily clung closer to the side of his companion.

When the cottager arrived at his neat home, there burned a bright, cheerful blaze, around which his wife and children waited his return. He presented Arthur, saying, “Here, Mary, I have brought you a little traveler to spend the night, who is on his way to P—— to see his sister, and has walked all the way from L—— this cold day.”

“Poor boy!” said she, rising, and taking his cold hands within her own, then brushing his dark locks from his pale brow, and glancing at her own hearty, cheerful-faced little ones, (who had clustered around to get a sly peep at the stranger,) she murmured, “Poor boy, a mere child, to be going so far! Have you no mother?”

Poor Arthur could bear no more; at the name of _mother_, he bent his head, and sobbed aloud.

Pressing him to her heart, while the tears streamed down her own benevolent face, she said, hushingly, “There, there now, never mind! God takes care of the orphan!” while her good husband, who had taken the youngest child upon his knee, brushed his sleeve across his eyes, saying, “There, there, never mind; don’t cry, and to-morrow Johnny shall take you a good bit of your journey on the old mare.”

The good couple had so won on Arthur’s heart, that ere supper was over he had told them his simple tale; and they felt a still deeper interest when they found in him the companion of their eldest son, who had been in Mr. Buckler’s store for several years. And as he knelt with them ere he retired to rest, and heard them ask God to bless and protect him, a feeling of happiness crept over his soul, such as he had never felt since that fearful night on which he had sought bread for his dying mother.

[_Conclusion in our next._

* * * * *

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by A. S. Walter.]

* * * * *

THE BELLE OF NEWPORT.

BY CHARLES J. PETERSON.

It was the height of the season at Newport, and the long piazza of the Ocean-House was crowded with loungers. Suddenly a young man, with something of a foreign air, exclaimed—

“Heavens, Harry! what a divinity!”

He pointed, as he spoke, with his light cane to a young lady, who, having approached on the other side of the street, was now picking her way daintily across the dusty road. Her figure was one of unusual grace, and her step light and elastic. When she reached the pavé she glanced up at the piazza, but seeing a score of idle eyes fixed upon her, she dropped her veil, and advanced to the ladies’ entrance with a slightly hurried pace.

But the momentary exposure of her countenance showed that its beauty justified the general look of admiration. The eyes were lustrous and dark, a rich bloom mantled healthily on her cheek, and the fresh air blew freely to and fro her redundant curls of glossy raven hair; added to this the mouth was one of indescribable loveliness, around the dimpled corners of which Love himself seemed to lurk.

“By Jove!” said the gentleman who had spoken before, “I have seen no woman so beautiful in all my travels abroad. What eyes! they seem to look into one’s very soul. And such a step, free and graceful as a fawn’s, or rather like that of Diana, the maiden huntress, herself.”

“That, Derwent,” replied his companion, “is Miss Stanhope, the belle of Newport we call her; beautiful enough, to be sure, but only the companion to some rich Southern heiress.”

“And half the house, I suppose, is in love with her?”

“No, and yes,” replied Harry. “She has plenty of admirers, but no suitors; her friend, the rich Miss Arnott, though as ugly as a giraffe, carries the palm off from her.”

“I find my countrymen as mercenary as foreigners, though without half the excuse,” said Derwent. “However, they can’t be blamed. Take my own case, for instance. Here am I with just income enough to support myself, and no prospect of being able to marry unless I select a rich wife, or what is even worse, go to work in earnest at my nominal profession! In such a case, one must either remain single or look out for an heiress. It is well enough to talk of ‘love in a cottage,’ but what can two people accustomed to the luxuries of life do in a house no bigger than a dog-kennel, and with but one servant, a maid-of-all-work. However, you must introduce me to this Miss Stanhope, I may as well flirt with her like the rest.” Thus spoke Derwent, one of whose affectations was to seem worse than he was.

That evening accordingly saw Derwent numbered among the acquaintance of the belle of the season. She received him graciously, for in addition to a remarkably fine person, he had an air of high-breeding; while his countenance carried assurance of the owner being something more in both intellect and heart, than the ephemeral men of fashion around him. Indeed, Derwent possessed unusual ability, improved by book-study and travel. He talked to Miss Stanhope of England, and its lordly demesnes; of Paris, and its boulevards; of Germany, and the Rhine; of Italy, and her priceless works of art; of Greece, and her temples, even in decay the wonder of the spectator; and of Egypt, the parent of all, with her venerable Nile, her Luxor, her Philæ, and her pyramids, which though they have braved three thousand years, seem as if they will yet, in the minds of the awe-struck Arabs, conquer Time itself. Nor did he confine himself merely to these monuments of the past. He spoke of the manners, the religious and the social condition of the nations he had traveled among, from the starving operative of England to the free Bedouin of the desert. This style of conversation, so different from the empty small talk and insensate flattery with which her ears were usually greeted, arrested the attention of Miss Stanhope; for being of a cultivated mind herself, she not only appreciated what he said, but felt it as a compliment to be talked to thus. In a word, Derwent managed to monopolize her evening, and when the hour of retiring came neither imagined it was half so late.

“And so you were engrossed by the beauty the whole of last evening,” said Harry, as the friends sauntered to the billiard-room the following morning. “You had other listeners, however, than Miss Stanhope; and, let me whisper to you confidentially, have made quite a conquest in a certain quarter. Miss Arnott herself, it seems, heard you describe your presentation at St. James’, and was so charmed with your account of the queen, that she has asked to be introduced to you; a favor never bestowed on any gentleman before.”

“I forgot all about Miss Arnott, last night,” replied Derwent. “How does she look? Is she a woman of sense?”

“As for how she looks,” replied Harry, “here she comes with Miss Stanhope: you see her now, a tall, lean figure, with a face that might be pretty if it had a bit of expression. There, that slouchy, awkward figure, is worth just twenty thousand a year; while the one beside it, all grace, beauty, and vivacity, has not a cent. Whether Miss Arnott has common sense you must decide for yourself, for I intend to introduce you on the moment.”

Before Derwent had time to reply, the introduction had taken place, and Derwent been left dexterously to Miss Arnott, while his friend had contrived to monopolize her companion.

It was a lovely morning for walking. A shower the preceding evening had laid the dust, the sun shone without a cloud, and a cool breeze, laden with saline freshness from the sea, blew pleasantly past. The ladies were executing a long cherished determination to visit the cliffs on foot; and the two young men solicited leave to accompany them. In a few minutes Derwent had grown heartily tired of his companion. She was, he thought, the most insipid creature he had ever met. Yet, to do Miss Arnott justice, she was quite as interesting as most fashionably educated young ladies; but then Derwent could not help contrasting her with Miss Stanhope, whose playful wit, strong sense, and rich stores of reading rendered the penniless companion as fascinating as the heiress was dull. He was glad when, the cliffs being reached, his _tête-à-tête_ was broken up. He had secretly resolved to be revenged on Harry, and accordingly luring Miss Stanhope off to look at the sea from a new point, he set out on his return, without going back for Harry and Miss Arnott, contenting himself with waving his hat for them to follow.

If Miss Stanhope detected his little stratagem, she was not displeased with it; and the walk back to the hotel comprised an hour of the sweetest enjoyment to Derwent. Though the beauty of Miss Stanhope had first attracted his attention, it was the qualities of her mind that now fascinated him; yet we will not deny that what she said received additional interest by falling from such lovely lips. In short, from that morning Derwent became the constant cavalier of Miss Stanhope; and this, notwithstanding the marked efforts which Miss Arnott made to attract him to herself. At last, the partiality of the heiress became so strong that she frowned openly on her companion whenever she saw Derwent and Miss Stanhope together—finally, the latter from some cause avoided his attentions, and left the field open to her more fortunate rival.