Chapter I: Have Seen an End of All Perfection, 252 (2)

"When my little sister died, I wondered why she lay still so long. I thought she was lazy to be sleeping when the sun had arisen. I gathered violets, and threw them in her face, and said in my dialect of signs, "Wake up; wake up!" And I was displeased at her, and went so far as to say, "What a fool you are!" when she permitted them to put her in a box, and carry her away, instead of getting up to play with me.

"Afterwards, when my mother died, they told me repeatedly, that she was _dead, dead_; and tried to explain to me what death meant. But I was distressed when I asked her for bread, that she did not give it to me; and when she was buried, I went every day where they had laid her, waiting, and expecting that she would rise. Sometimes I grew impatient, and rolled upon the turf that covered her, striking my forehead against it, weeping and saying, "Mother, get up! get up! why do you sleep there so long with the child? I am sick, and hungry, and alone. Oh, Mother! mother! get up!" When I was taken to my grandmother's house, I could no longer visit the grave, and it grieved me; for I believed if I continued to go and cry there, she would at length hear me and come up."

"I know that more pains were taken to instil religious principles into your mind, than are commonly bestowed upon the deaf and dumb. Will you tell me what was your opinion of the Supreme Being?"

"My kind grandmother laboured without ceasing, to impress me with reverence for the Almighty. Through her efforts I obtained some idea of the power and goodness which are visible in creation; but of HIM, who wrought in the storm and in the sunshine, I was doubtful whether it were a strong man, a huge animal, or a vast machine. I was in all the ignorance of heathen sin, until by patient attendance on your judicious course of instruction, knowledge entered into my soul."

He then expressed to his teacher, the gratitude he felt for the blessings of education, and affectionately wishing him a good night, retired to repose.

Instances of the development of kind affections and religious hopes, are often touchingly displayed among the children who share in the privation of hearing and speech. This was peculiarly the case with two little silent sisters, beautiful in person and of gentle dispositions. Their names were Phebe and Frances Hammond. The eldest was a very fair, interesting child. She was deaf and dumb from her birth, but from infancy showed quick perceptions and a lively attention to every object that passed before the eye. She seemed perfectly happy, when the little sister, two and a half years younger, and like herself mute, was old enough to play with her. She would lead her with the greatest gentleness, keeping watch lest she should get hurt, with a tender, continual care. When they were permitted to amuse themselves out of doors, if she saw any thing approaching which she feared, she thought not of herself, but encircled the little one in her arms, and by cries sought for her relief and protection. If they wished to climb a fence, she would proceed at first, alone, trying every part, to be sure of its safety, ere she returned to aid her darling sister, keeping a firm hold on her as she ascended, and jumping over on the other side, to extend her little arm and lift her tenderly down. It was a touching sight, to view these silent children, at their healthful sports upon the smooth green lawn, or beneath the shade of spreading trees, supplying as it were, the deficiency of Nature, by an increased exercise of the sweetest, most sustaining affections.

Ere long, they expressed their desire to attend school, that they might "learn to do, like other children." Here they were very diligent, and by great attention from the instructress were taught to sew, to write, and to spell many words. Visitants of the school expressed surprise at the neatness of their needle-work, and chirography.

When they were brought by their father, from their home in Massachusetts, to the Asylum for the deaf and dumb, in Hartford, Phebe was ten, and Frances seven and a half years old. There was at that time a regulation in force, that no pupil under the age of ten years, could be received, being supposed unable to derive full benefit from their system of instruction.

Yet these little silent sisters, who had been together night and day, whose features and garb were the same, the smile or the sadness of one face being suddenly reflected on the other, as if but one soul animated two bodies, how could they be parted? The idea of a separate existence, a divided pleasure, had never entered their minds. Now, they gazed on each other with an expression of the deepest anguish. They folded each other in their arms. No power of speech was so eloquent as their imploring looks. The law relaxed its prohibition in their case. They were permitted to remain together.

Phebe took her seat immediately among the one hundred and forty pupils, forgetting in her desire to learn, the embarrassment of a stranger. Little Frances was more diffident, and clung to her as to a mother, never for a moment disappointed in finding the tenderest sympathy and love. Soon they became cheerful and happy. Their affectionate hearts were open to every innocent pleasure. Though the youngest in school, they were so docile and industrious as to obtain a rank among the best scholars; and when the lessons of each day were over, they comforted themselves with their sweet, sisterly love. If one received the simplest gift, it was instantly shared; if it could not be divided it was considered as the property of both.

Phebe taught the little one to keep her clothes without spot or stain, and to put every article in its proper place. She led her by the hand wherever she went, and if there was a tear on her cheek she kissed it away. Little Frances looked up to her, with the most endearing and perfect confidence. When they went home, at the vacations in spring and autumn, the affectionate deportment of these beautiful mute children, and their progress in the dialect of signs, as well as in written speech, was admired by all. After they had enjoyed the benefit of instruction somewhat more than two years, Phebe was observed to have a slight cough, and being taken ill, was obliged to return to her parents. Symptoms of consumption were too plainly revealed to be mistaken. As she became more emaciated and feeble, she desired to be carried every day at a certain hour, into an unoccupied room, and left for a while, by herself. On being asked why she wished this, she answered that she might better lift up her thoughts to Him who heareth prayer.

"In heaven," she said, "there are babes, and children, and persons of every age. I think I have seen this in my mind, in a bright dream. I am so weak, I shall die. I pray that I may go to heaven. Oh! I wish Frances to love God. She is my good sister."

She was asked if it was her wish to live and be restored to health. She replied,

"No, I would see Jesus."

So, in quietness and peace, the voiceless spirit of the loving child departed, to rejoice, we trust, amid the melodies of heaven. Sweet, sisterly affection seemed to have been her principal solace, here below. And if it was capable of imparting such happiness to these deaf mutes, surely the children who are blessed with hearing and speech, might still more fully enjoy, and exemplify it. All who have brothers and sisters should perform their duty tenderly towards them, with constant gratitude to Him who has vouchsafed them the comfort of such relations.

Any little departure from kindness, will cause painful remembrances in a time of bereavement. A boy was seen often at the grave of a brother, younger than himself. He hid his face upon the grassy mound and wept bitterly. A friend who once saw him there, said, "How much you loved your brother." But he replied through his tears, "My grief is because I did not love him more."

We have spoken of silent people. I can tell you of one who suffers a still heavier calamity. At the same Institution for the deaf and dumb, is a girl, to whom noonday and midnight are the same, who takes no pleasure in the summer landscape or the fair changes of nature, hears not the sound of brooks bursting loose in spring, nor the song of birds, nor the laughter of the young child, neither looks upon the face of mother or of friend. She is not only deaf and dumb, but blind. Her name is Julia Brace. Her earliest years were spent in the home of her parents, who were poor, and had several younger children. Of all their movements she was observant, as far as her state would allow; and when the weather was cold, would sometimes kneel on the floor of their humble dwelling, to feel if their little feet were naked as well as her own. If she ascertained that others, and not herself, were furnished with shoes and stockings, she would express uneasiness at the contrast. Her perception, with regard to articles of dress, was more accurate than could have been expected, and when any gifts were presented her, soon ascertained and preferred those which were of the most delicate texture. Seated on her little block, weaving thin strips of bark with bits of leather, which her father who was a shoemaker threw away, she constructed for her cat, strange bonnets, or other ornaments, equally rude, and yet not wholly discordant with the principles of taste.

Sometimes, when the mother went out to a day's work of washing, she left Julia, notwithstanding her peculiar helplessness, with the care of the younger children. On such occasions, she evinced more of maternal solicitude, and even of skill in domestic legislation than could have been rationally expected.

Once, when a dish had been broken, she imitated what she supposed might be her mother's discipline, and shook the little careless offender with some force. Then placing her hand upon its eyes, and discovering that it wept, and considering the act of discipline complete, she hastened to take it in her arms and press it to her bosom, and by preserving tenderness, soothe it into good-humour and confidence.

While yet a child, her parents were relieved from the expense of her maintenance, by some charitable ladies, who placed her in the family of an elderly matron who kept a small day-school. Her curiosity was now called forth into great activity, to search out the employments of the scholars, and try to imitate them. She observed that much of their time was occupied with books. So she held a book long before her own sightless eyes. But no knowledge visited her imprisoned mind. Then, she held an open book before the face of her favourite kitten, feeling its mouth at the same time, and perceiving that its lips did not move, shook its shoulder and rapped its ear, to quicken its imitation of the studious children.

Trifling as these circumstances are in themselves, they show perception, and perseverance, struggling against the barriers that Nature had interposed. Needle-work and knitting had been taught her, and from these employments she drew her principal solace. With these she would busy herself for hours, until it became necessary to prompt her to the exercise that health required. Counterpanes, patiently constructed by her, of small pieces of calico, were sold to aid in supplying her wardrobe, and specimens of her work were distributed by her patrons, to prove of what nicety and industry the poor, blind, and silent girl was capable.

It was sometimes an amusement to her visitants to give into her hand their watches, and test a peculiar sagacity which she possessed, in restoring each to its owner. Though their position with regard to her, or to each other, was frequently and studiously varied, and though she might hold at the same time, two or three watches, neither stratagem nor persuasion could induce her to yield either, except to the person from whom she received it. This tenacity of principle, to give every one his own, might be resolved into that moral honesty which has ever formed a conspicuous part of her character. Though nurtured in poverty, and after her removal from the parental roof, in the constant habit of being in contact with articles of dress or food which strongly tempted her desires, she has never been known to appropriate to herself, without permission, the most trifling object. In a well-educated child, this might be no remarkable virtue; but in one, whose sealed ear can receive no explanation of the rights of property, and whose perfect blindness must often render it difficult even to define them, the incorruptible firmness of this innate principle is truly laudable. There is also connected with it a delicacy of feeling, or scrupulousness of conscience, which renders it necessary, in presenting her any gift, to assure her repeatedly, by a sign which she understands, that it is _for her_, ere she will consent to accept it.

After her admission into the Asylum for the deaf and dumb, in Hartford, her native place, efforts were made by one of the benevolent instructors in that Institution to teach her the alphabet. For this purpose raised letters, as well as those indented beneath a smooth surface, were put in requisition. Punctually she repaired to the school-room, with the seeing pupils, and spent hour after hour in imitating with pins upon a cushion, the forms of each separate letter. But all in vain. However accurate her delineations might sometimes be, they conveyed no idea to the mind, sitting in thick darkness. It was therefore deemed best that it should pursue those occupations which more immediately ministered to its comfort and satisfaction.

It has been observed that persons who are deprived any one sense, have additional vigour infused into those that remain. Thus blind persons are distinguished by exquisite delicacy of touch, and the deaf and dumb concentrate their whole souls in the eye, their only avenue to knowledge. But with her, whose ear, eye, and tongue, are alike dead to action, the power of the olfactory organs is so heightened, as almost to form a new and peculiar sense. It almost transcends the sagacity of the spaniel.

As the abodes which from her earliest recollection she had inhabited, were circumscribed and humble, it was supposed that at her first reception into the Asylum, she might testify surprise. But she immediately busied herself in quietly exploring the size of the apartments, and smelled at the thresholds, and then, as if by the union of a mysterious geometry with a powerful memory, never made a false step upon a flight of stairs, or entered a wrong door, or mistook her seat at the table. At the tea-table with the whole family, on sending her cup to be replenished, if one is accidentally returned to her, which has been used by another person, she perceives it in a moment, and pushes it from her with some slight appearance of disgust, as if her sense of propriety had been invaded. There is not the slightest difference in the cups, and in this instance she seems endowed by a sense of penetration not possessed by those in the full enjoyment of sight.

Among her various excellencies, neatness and love of order are conspicuous. Her simple wardrobe is systematically arranged, and it is impossible to displace a single article in her drawers, without her perceiving and reinstating it. When the large baskets of clean linen are weekly brought from the laundress, she selects her own garments without hesitation, however widely they may be dispersed among the mass. If any part of her dress requires mending, she is prompt and skilful in repairing it, and her perseverance in this branch of economy greatly diminishes the expense of her clothing.

The donations of charitable visitants are deposited in a box with an inscription, and she has been made to understand that the contents are devoted to her benefit. This box she frequently poises in her hand, and expresses pleasure when it testifies an increase of weight, for she has long since ascertained that money is the medium for the supply of her wants, and attaches to it a proportionable value.

Though her habits are perfectly regular and consistent, yet occasionally, some action occurs which it is difficult to explain. One summer morning, while employed with her needle, she found herself incommoded by the warmth of the sun. She arose, opened the window, closed the blinds, and again resumed her work. This movement, though perfectly simple in a young child, who had seen it performed by others, must in her case have required a more complex train of reasoning. How did she know that the heat which she felt was caused by the sun, or that by interposing an opaque body she might exclude his rays?

Persons most intimately acquainted with her habits assert, that she constantly regards the recurrence of the Sabbath, and composes herself to a deeper quietness of meditation. Her needle-work, from which she will not consent to be debarred on other days, she never attempts to resort to, and this wholly without influence from those around her. Who can have impressed upon her benighted mind the sacredness of that day? and by what art does she, who is ignorant of all numerical calculation, compute without error the period of its rotation? A philosopher who should make this mysterious being his study, might find much to astonish him, and perhaps something to throw light upon the structure of the human mind.

Before her entrance at the Asylum, it was one of her sources of satisfaction to be permitted to lay her hand upon the persons who visited her, and thus to scrutinize with some minuteness, their features, or the nature of their apparel. It seemed to constitute one mode of intercourse with her fellow-beings, which was soothing to her lonely heart, and sometimes gave rise to degrees of admiration or dislike, not always to be accounted for by those whose judgment rested upon the combined evidence of all their senses. But since her removal to this noble institution, where the visits of strangers are so numerous as to cease to be a novelty, she has discontinued this species of attention, and is not pleased with any long interruption to her established system of industry.

The genial influences of spring wake her lone heart to gladness, and she gathers the first flowers, and even the young blades of grass, and inhales their freshness with a delight bordering on transport. Sometimes, when apparently in deep thought, she is observed to burst into laughter, as if her associations of ideas were favourable, not only to cheerfulness, but to mirth. The society of the female pupils at the Asylum is soothing to her feelings, and their habitual kind offices, their guiding arm in her walks, or the affectionate pressure of their hands, awaken in her demonstrations of gratitude and friendship. One of them was sick, but it was not supposed that amid the multitude that surrounded her, the blind girl would be conscious of her absence. A physician was called, and she was made to understand his profession by placing a finger upon her pulse. She immediately arose, and led him with the earnest solicitude of friendship to the bedside of the invalid, placing her hand in his with an affecting confidence in the power of healing. As she has herself never been sick, it is the more surprising that she should so readily comprehend the efficacy and benevolence of the medical profession.

Julia Brace is still an inmate of the Asylum at Hartford. She leads a life of quiet industry, and apparent contentment. Some slight services in the domestic department supply the exercise that health requires, and the remainder of the time she chooses to be employed in sewing or knitting. Visitants often linger by her side, to witness the mystical process of threading her needle, which is accomplished rapidly by the aid of her tongue. So, the tongue that hath never spoken is still in continual use.

Her youth is now past, and she seems to make few, if any, new mental acquisitions. Her sister in calamity, Laura Bridgman, of the Institution for the Blind in Boston, has far surpassed her in intellectual attainments, and excites the wondering admiration of every beholder. The felicity of her position, the untiring philanthropy of her patron, Dr. Howe, and the constant devotion of an accomplished teacher, have probably produced this difference of result, more than any original disparity of talents or capacity.

Julia, in her life of patient regularity, affords as strong a lesson as can be given of the power of industry to soothe privation and to confer content. While employed she is satisfied, but if at any time unprovided with work, her mind preys upon itself, not being able to gather ideas from surrounding objects, and having but a limited stock of knowledge to furnish material for meditation. If this poor heart which is never to thrill at the sound of a human voice, or be lifted up with joy at the fair scenery of earth, and sky and waters, finds in willing diligence a source of happiness, with how much more gladness should we turn to the pursuits of industry, who are impelled by motives and repaid by results which she must never enjoy!

Dear young friends, who can see the smile on the faces of those whom you love, who can hear their approving voices, who can utter the words of knowledge, and rejoice in the glorious charms of nature, who know also that life is short, and that you must give strict account of it to God, how faithfully and earnestly should you improve your time! You who have the great, blessed gift of speech, be careful to make a right use of it. Yes: speak kind, and sweet, and true words, and so help your own souls on their way to Heaven.

Laura Bridgman.

THE DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND GIRL, AT THE INSTITUTION FOR THE BLIND, IN BOSTON

Where is the light that to the eye
Heaven's holy message gave,
Tinging the retina with rays
From sky, and earth, and wave?

Where is the sound that to the soul
Mysterious passage wrought,
And strangely made the moving lip
A harp-string for the thought?

All fled! all lost! Not even the rose[1]
An odour leaves behind,
That, like a broken reed, might trace
The tablet of the mind.

That mind! It struggles with its fate,
The anxious conflict, see!
As if through Bastile-bars it sought
Communion with the free.

Yet still its prison-robe it wears
Without a prisoner's pain;
For happy childhood's beaming sun
Glows in each bounding vein.

And bless'd Philosophy is near,
In Christian armour bright,
To scan the subtlest clew that leads
To intellectual light.

Say, lurks there not some ray of heaven
Amid thy bosom's night,
Some echo from a better land,
To make the smile so bright?

The lonely lamp in Greenland cell,
Deep 'neath a world of snow,
Doth cheer the loving household group
Though none around may know;

And, sweet one, hath our Father's hand
Plac'd in thy casket dim
Some radiant and peculiar lamp,
To guide thy steps to Him?

[Footnote 1: Laura is deprived of the sense of smell, which in Julia's case is so acute.]

Humble Friends.

Kindness to animals shows an amiable disposition, and correct principles. The inferior creation were given for our use, but not for our abuse or cruelty. Many of them add greatly to the comfort of domestic life, and also display qualities deserving of regard. The noble properties of the dog, the horse, and the "half-reasoning elephant," have long been known and praised. But among the lower grades of animals, especially if they receive kind treatment, traits of character are often discovered that surprise or delight us.

Cats, so frequently the objects of neglect or barbarity, are more sagacious than is generally supposed. The mother of four young kittens missed one of her nurslings, and diligently searched the house to find it. Then she commenced calling upon the neighbours, gliding from room to room, and looking under sofas and beds with a troubled air. At length she found it in a family in the vicinity, where it had been given by her mistress. Taking it in her mouth, she brought it home and bestowed on it her nursing cares and maternal caresses for a few weeks, then carried it back to the same neighbour, and left it in the same spot where she found it. It would seem as if she wished to testify her approbation of the home selected for her child, and desired only to nurture it until it should be old enough to fill it properly.

A cat who had repeatedly had her kittens taken from her and drowned immediately after their birth, went to a barn belonging to the family, quite at a long distance from the house. She so judiciously divided her time, as to obtain her meals at home and attend to her nursery abroad. At length she entered the kitchen, followed by four of her offspring, well-grown, all mewing in chorus. Had she foresight enough to conclude, that if she could protect them until they reached a more mature age, they would escape the fate of their unfortunate kindred?

A little girl once sat reading, with a large favourite cat in her lap. She was gently stroking it, while it purred loudly, to express its joy. She invited a person who was near, to feel its velvet softness. Reluctant to be interrupted in an industrious occupation that required the use of both hands, the person did not immediately comply, but at length touched the head so abruptly that the cat supposed itself to have been struck. Resenting the indignity, it ceased its song, and continued alternately rolling and closing its eyes, yet secretly watching, until both the busy hands had resumed their employment. Then, stretching forth a broad, black velvet paw, it inflicted on the back of one of them a quick stroke, and jumping down, concealed itself beneath the chair of its patron. There seemed in this simple action a nice adaptation of means to ends: a prudent waiting, until the retaliation that was meditated could be conveniently indulged, and a prompt flight from the evil that might ensue.

The race of rats are usually considered remarkable only for voraciousness, or for ingenious and mischievous inventions to obtain the gratification of appetite. A vessel that had been much infested by them, was when in port fumigated with brimstone, to expel them. Escaping in great numbers, they were dispatched by people stationed for that purpose. Amid the flying victims a group was observed to approach slowly, upon the board placed between the vessel and the shore. One of those animals held in his mouth a stick, the extremities of which were held by two others, who carefully led him. It was discovered that he was entirely blind. The executioners making way for them, suffered them to live. It was not in the heart of man to scorn such an example.

Another of our ships, while in a foreign port, took similar measures to free itself from those troublesome inmates. Amid the throngs that fled from suffocating smoke to slaughtering foes, one was seen moving laboriously as if overburdened. Climbing over the bodies of his dead companions, he bore upon his back another, so old as to be unable to walk. Like Eneas, escaping from the flames of Troy, perhaps it was an aged father that he thus carried upon his shoulders. Whether it were filial piety or respect for age, his noble conduct, as in the previous instance, saved his life and that of his venerable friend.

Sheep are admired for their innocence and meekness, more than for strong demonstrations of character. Yet the owner of a flock was once surprised by seeing one of his fleecy people rushing to and fro beneath his window, in great agitation and alarm. Following her to the pasture, where she eagerly led the way, he found a fierce dog tearing the sheep. Having put him to flight, he turned in search of the messenger, and found her in a close thicket, where she had carefully hidden her own little lamb, ere she fled to apprize the master of their danger. This strangely intelligent animal was permitted to live to the utmost limit of longevity allotted to her race.

The instinct of the beaver approaches the bounds of reason. Their dexterity in constructing habitations and rearing mounds to repel the watery element, surpasses that of all other animals. A gentleman who resided where they abound, wished to ascertain whether this was inherent, or the effect of imitation. He took therefore, to his house, an infant beaver, ere its eyes were opened. It was an inmate of his kitchen, where one day, from a leaky pail, a small stream of water oozed out upon the floor. Out ran the little beaver, and collected sticks and clay, with which it built a dam to stop the passage of the tiny brook.

An Indian, going out to shoot beaver, saw a large one felling a lofty tree. Ere he gave the finishing strokes, he ascended a neighbouring hill, throwing his head about, and taking deep draughts of air. The Indian, who stedfastly regarded him, supposed that he was taking an observation of which way the wind blew: as when he made his last effort on the tree, he made use of this knowledge to shelter himself from injury at its fall. He then measured the trunk into equal lengths for the height of the house he was to build, and loading his broad tail with wet clay, made a mark at each division. Uttering a peculiar cry, three little beavers appeared at their father's call, and began to knaw asunder the wood at the places which he had designated.

"When I saw this," said the Indian, "I turned away. Could I harm such a creature? No. He was to me as a brother."

Among the insect tribes, the ant sustains a good character for foresight and industry, having been cited by the wise monarch of Israel as an example and reproof to the sluggard. Their almost resistless force in the tropical countries, where they move in bodies, shows the power that the feeble may acquire through unity of effort and design.

When Dr. Franklin was on his embassy in France, soon after our Revolution, he one morning sat musing over his solitary breakfast, and perceived a legion of large black ants taking possession of the sugar-bowl. His philosophic mind being ever ready for experiments, he caused it to be suspended from the ceiling by a string. They returned. The sweet food was above their reach. It was worth an effort to regain it. One placed himself in a perpendicular position, and another mounted upon his shoulders. Others ascended the same scaffolding, each stretching to his utmost altitude. Down fell the line. Yet it was again and again renewed. Then the Babel-builders disappeared. Had they given up the siege? No. They had only changed their mode of attack. Soon they were seen traversing the ceiling, and precipitating themselves upon the coveted spoil, by the string that sustained it. Here was somewhat of the same boldness and perseverance that led Hannibal across the Alps, to pour his soldiers down upon astonished Italy.

Thus the spider that sought so many times to fasten its frail thread, and at length succeeded, gave a profitable lesson to King Robert the Bruce, when he ruminated in discouragement and despair on his failing enterprises.

Parrots are generally considered as senseless repeaters of sounds and words, that convey neither sentiment nor feeling. Now and then, there seems some variation from this rule. A parrot who had been reared with kindness, selected as his prime favourite the youngest child in the family. By every means in his power he expressed this preference. The little girl was seized with a severe sickness. He missed her in her accustomed haunts, and turning his head quickly from side to side, called loudly for her.

At length, the fair form, stretched in its coffin, met his view. In wild and mournful tones, he continued to utter her name. He was removed far from the room, but the shrill echo of his voice was still heard amid the funeral obsequies, pronouncing with frantic grief the name of his lost Mary. Ever afterwards, when the sound of the tolling bell met his ear, the fountains of memory were troubled, and the cry of "Mary! Mary!" mingled with the mournful knell, till it ceased.

Since so many interesting properties are discovered in the inferior creation, where, perhaps, we least expected them, it is well to search for such traits of character as deserve our regard, and consider them as humble friends, that we may better do our duty to them, and please Him who has entrusted them to our protection.

Butterfly in a School-Room.

Gay inmate of our studious room.
Adorn'd with nature's brightest dyes,
Whose gadding wing, and tissued plume,
Allure so many wandering eyes.

The breath of eve is gathering bleak,
And thou dost shrink beneath its power,
And faint, or famish'd, seem'st to seek
The essence from yon withering flower

Haste to thine own secluded cell,
And shield thee from the chilling blast,
And let the honied casket well
Supply a fresh and free repast.

Hast thou no home? Didst thou provide
No shelter from autumnal rain?
Hast thou no cheering board supplied
From all the treasures of the plain?

What wilt thou do 'neath wintry skies?
Behold! the charms of summer fade,
Thy friend, the labouring bee, was wise
Ere on their stalks the plants decay'd,

Frail insect! shivering 'mid the storm,
Thy season of delight is past,
And soon that gaudy, graceful form,
Shall stiffen on the whelming blast.

Companions dear! whose frequent glance
Marks yon fair creature's brilliant hue,
Methinks, its wing in frolic dance,
Doth speak in wisdom's lore to you:

Seek not to flutter, and to flaunt,
While a few years their courses roll,
But heed approaching winter's want,
And store the sweetness of the soul.

A Brave Boy.

There are ways in which boys may show true courage, without being forward and bold in contention. It often requires more to avoid it. To show forbearance when they are provoked, or to tell the whole truth when they have committed faults, are proofs of more lofty and high principle than to imitate the fighting animals, and repel force by force, or the fox-like ones, and practise cunning. To live at peace, may need more firmness than to quarrel; because one is to control our passions, and the other to indulge them.

The bravest boy is he who rules himself, and does his duty without boasting. I have known some beautiful instances of this class of virtues, and will mention one that is now in my mind.

A widow, who was the mother of several children, resided in a pleasant part of New England. She faithfully nurtured and instructed them, and one of her precepts was, that when they had any difficult duty to perform, they should ask strength from above. Her youngest was a boy of eight years old, active and intelligent. He was not only obedient to her, but attentive to his studies, and beloved by his instructors.

One fine summer afternoon, when there was no school, he was walking on the banks of a river that beautified the scenery of his native place. He admired the silver stream as it sparkled in the sunbeams, and the rich verdure that clothed its banks. Suddenly, a large boy plunged in, as if for the purpose of bathing, though he did not divest himself of any part of his clothing. Soon, he struggled in distress, as if ready to sink.

Ralph Edward, the son of the widow, had been taught to swim. Throwing off his boots and his little coat, he hastened to the relief of the drowning stranger. He found him nearly senseless, and though much larger than himself, and nearly twice his age, succeeded by great exertions in bringing him to the shore. There, he supported him against a bank, until he had thrown from his mouth a quantity of water, and was able to thank his benefactor. He confessed that he was ignorant of the art of swimming, but had a great desire to learn, and had no idea that the river was so deep and swift. When he was able to proceed on his way, Ralph Edward returned home. His head was giddy, and his breast throbbed with the efforts he had made He went to his little chamber, and throwing himself upon the bed, wept bitterly. His mother heard him moaning, and inquired the cause of his grief. He told her he could not forget the convulsed features of a half-drowned boy, and the pain he seemed to feel when he gasped for breath upon the bank. Then, in compliance with her request, he related all the circumstances.

"My son, do you know that you have been in great danger? Have you never heard that the grasp of drowning persons is fatal?"

"Oh, yes. But mother, what could I do? Should I stand still, and see him die? Had I waited for other help, he must have sunk to rise no more."

"Was he your friend?"

"I do not even know his name. I think he is a servant in some family not far off. I have seen him driving a cow to pasture, but never spoke to him until to-day."

"How were you able to swim, and support a boy so much larger than yourself?"

"Mother, I cannot say. I only know that I remember what you told us to do when we had any difficult duty to perform, and I begged for strength of our Father who is in Heaven."

The mother comforted her child, and soothed his agitated nerves, and gave him her blessing. After that he slept sweetly and awoke refreshed. Trembling at the risk he had run, she still was thankful for the spirit that had moved him to do good to a stranger, and the piety that had made him mindful of the great Giver of strength and Hearer of prayer.

She reflected with gratitude also, upon his humility. He did not say boastfully, "I have rescued a boy from the river, when he was ready to sink. He was larger than I, but I did it all alone. He is almost twice as old too, and does not even know how to keep himself up in the water, while I can swim as well and boldly as a man."

No. He came home without alluding to the occurrence, as if it were a matter of course, to help those who were in need. He complained not of fatigue, though every nerve was strained and tremulous. He went silently to his own secluded room, and shed tears of pity at the remembrance of the struggles of the sufferer. The true greatness that prompted this forgetfulness of self, was as remarkable as the courage that snatched a fellow-creature from danger.

May Morning.

May is here, with skies of blue,
Tuneful birds of varied hue,
Blossoms bright on plant and tree:
Ye, who love her smile of glee,
Leave the city's thronging streets,
Meet her in her green retreats,
And, with thrilling heart inhale
Perfumes from her balmy gale.

Come! for countless gifts she bears;
Take her cordial for your cares:
Cull the charms that never cloy,
Twine the wreaths of social joy,
And with liberal hand dispense
Blessings of benevolence:
For when Spring shall fade away,
And the year grow dim and gray,
These, with changeless warmth shall glow
Mid the hills of wintry snow,
And undying fragrance cast,
When the _Spring of life_ is past.

The Huguenot Grandfather's Tale.

It is doubtless known to my readers, that the Huguenots were French Protestants, who on account of religious persecution fled from their country. The Edict of Nantz was a law made by Henry IV. of France, allowing liberty of conscience, and safety to those who dissented from the faith of the Church of Rome, the established religion of the realm. This edict was repealed by Louis XIV. in 1685; and the Protestants, or Huguenots, as they were generally called, left their country in great numbers and sought refuge in foreign lands. Thousands found a peaceful home in this western world, and their descendants are among the most respected and honoured inhabitants of our happy country.

Once, on a cold wintry evening, somewhat more than a century since, a bright light was seen streaming from the casement of a pleasant abode in Boston, casting cheerful radiance upon the snow-covered pavement. Within, by a blazing hearth, a group of children gathered around their mother, and the white-haired grandsire, singing with sweet voices, their evening hymn. Then, as the mother led away the little ones to their rest, the eldest, a boy of about twelve years old, drew his seat near the arm-chair of the aged man, and gazing affectionately on his mild, venerable countenance, said,

"Please, dear grandfather, tell me another of your good stories about our ancestors."

"So, I asked, in my boyhood, of our blessed grandmother, tales of olden times, sitting close at her feet, when the lamps were just lighted. Even now, I think I see her before me, with her silver locks, her brow but slightly wrinkled, and her eye beaming with a brilliance like youth, as she granted my request. My brothers and sisters loved and respected her, as a being of a superior order. Her memory of early scenes was clear and vivid, even in extreme age, when passing events made but a slight impression. I perceive that my own memory is assuming somewhat of the same character, and dwells with peculiar delight among the people and events of ancient times."

"Those are exactly what I delight to hear. I love the conversation of those who can tell what happened long before I was born. I will listen most attentively to whatever you shall be pleased to relate."

"I shall tell you of my grandfather's first visit to Paris. He was then about two years older than yourself, and was taken thither by his father, who held a military command under Lord Teligny, who, you remember to have seen in history, was son-in-law to the great Admiral Coligny. They were summoned to attend and take part in the public demonstrations of joy which marked the nuptials of young Henry of Navarre, and the princess Margaret. This was in the spring of 1572. The Queen of Navarre, with her son and suite, had just arrived, and were received with great pomp and festivity. Charles IX. was at that time king of France. He was a treacherous, vacillating character, and ruled by his mother, Catharine de Medicis, who was far more wicked than himself. To further her own plots, she induced him to treat the Protestant noblemen with marked attention. He complimented the manly beauty of De Teligny, the dignified deportment of the Baron de Rosny, and the philosophy of the Count de la Rochefaucault. He was fond of being seen walking arm in arm with the great Admiral Coligny, whom he often addressed by the title of "_Mon Pere_." Among the gallant, high-spirited Huguenots of rank, who dared and did so much for conscience' sake, Coligny was at that period the most distinguished.

His whole life was marked by decided and habitual piety. Prayers, and the chanted praise of psalms, arose up twice a day from his household. The officers both of France and Germany, who often surrounded his hospitable table, were the witnesses of his humble devotion. For as soon as the cloth was removed, he rose up, with all who were present, and if there was no minister there, rendered himself, earnest thanks to Almighty God. The sacred worship which he enjoyed in the quiet of his family, he endeavoured as far as possible to establish in the camp and in the army.

Many of the French nobles followed under their own roofs the religious example of Coligny. For he was ever exhorting and impressing on them the importance of daily, practical piety, saying that it was not enough that the father of a family should himself lead a holy life, unless he led and induced his household to follow his footsteps and imitate his example."

"Was Jane, Queen of Navarre, a Protestant?"

"Yes, and distinguished by the most devoted piety. She had not been long in Paris, ere she was seized with mortal sickness. Some suspected it to be the effect of poison, administered by Catharine, that this formidable protector of the Protestants might be out of the way, ere her plot to destroy them was hazarded. When the Queen of Navarre saw that her end drew nigh, she called her son to her bedside, and charged him solemnly to maintain the true religion, to take a tender care of the education of his sister, to avoid the society of vicious persons, and not to suffer his soul to be diverted from duty, by the empty pleasures of the world. With patience and even cheerful serenity of countenance, she endured the pains of her disease, and to her mourning friends said, "I pray you not to weep for me. God by this sickness calleth me to the enjoyment of a better life." It was on the 9th of June, 1572, that she departed, with the prayer of faith on her lips, and the benignity of an angel."

"Was your grandfather in Paris at the time of the marriage of Henry and Margaret?"

"He was, and attentively observed the splendid scene. The 18th of August was appointed for the nuptial ceremony. An ample pavilion was erected opposite to the great church of Notre Dame. It was magnificently covered with cloth of gold. The concourse of spectators was immense, and their shouts seemed to rend the sky, as the youthful pair appeared in their royal garments. When Henry, bowing almost to the feet of his beautiful bride, took from his brow the coronet of Navarre, the ladies admired his gracefulness, and the freshness of his auburn hair, which inclining to red, curled richly around his noble forehead. The princess had a highly brilliant complexion, and was decorated with a profusion of splendid jewels.

The Cardinal of Bourbon received their vows. There seemed some degree of displeasure to curl his haughty lip. Probably he was dissatisfied that all the ceremonies of the Romish church were not observed. For as the prince was a Protestant, and the princess Catholic, the solemnities were of a mixed nature, accommodated to both. It had been settled in the marriage contract, that neither party should interfere with the other, in the exercise of their different religions. To give public proof of this, as soon as the nuptial ceremony was performed, the bride left the pavilion to attend mass, and the bridegroom to hear the sermon of a Protestant divine. Acclamations and music from countless instruments loudly resounded, when the royal couple again appeared, and proceeded together to the magnificent bridal banquet. Charles presented his sister with 100,000 crowns for her dower, and in the festivities which succeeded the marriage, who could have foreseen the dreadful massacre of St. Bartholomew?"

"I have read in my history of that frightful scene. Dear Grandfather, how soon did it follow the nuptials which you have described?"

"Less than a week intervened. The ringing of the bells for morning prayers, at three o'clock, on Sunday, August 24th, was the signal for the Catholics to rush forth and murder the Protestants. The holy Sabbath dawned in peace. The matin-bell, calling the devout to worship a God of mercy, was heard. Man came forth to shed the blood of his unsuspecting brother. The work of destruction began in many parts of the city, at the same moment. Tumult and shrieks and uproar increased, until they deepened into a terrible and universal groan. The streets were filled with infuriated soldiers, and almost every habitation of the Huguenots became a slaughter-house. Infants were transfixed on pikes, and women precipitated themselves from high windows and battlements, that they might die without outrage. Thirty thousand fell victims in this horrible massacre, which extending itself from Paris to the provinces, was not satiated until more than twice that number had been sacrificed."

"What became of your grandfather during this scene of horror?"

"At the commencement of the tumult, his father hastily armed himself, and supposing it some temporary disturbance, went forth to aid in quelling it, commanding him to remain in the house. He obeyed until he was no longer able to endure the tortures of suspense, and then rushed out in search of a father whom he was never more to behold. Hasting to the quarters of Lord Teligny, his friend and benefactor, he found him mortally wounded, and faintly repeating the names of his wife and children. He then flew to the Hotel de St. Pierre, where Admiral Coligny lodged. But his headless trunk was precipitated from the window, and dragged onward by blood-smeared men, with faces scarcely human.

He had been wounded previous to the massacre. On Friday, the 22nd, he was coming from the Louvre, with a group of noblemen. He walked slowly, reading a petition which had been presented him. As he passed the cloister of St. Germain, he was shot by an arquebus loaded with three balls. His left arm was deeply wounded, and the fore-finger of his right hand carried away. No trace of the assassin, who had been employed by the Duke of Guise, could be found, though the friends of the Admiral made persevering search.

As the surgeon on examination feared that the copper balls were poisoned, this illustrious man supposed that his hour had come, and turning to his lamenting friends, said,

"Why do you weep? For myself, I am honoured to receive these wounds, for the holy cause of my God. Pray him to strengthen me."

The massacre commenced while it was yet dark, on Sunday morning, and the Duke of Guise, dreading lest Coligny, notwithstanding his injuries, should escape, and by his courage and influence reanimate the Protestants, hastened to his lodgings with three hundred soldiers. Knocking at the outer gate, they demanded admission in the name of the king. The gentleman who opened it, fell, stabbed to the heart.

The wounded Admiral, in his apartment, was engaged in prayer with a minister who attended him. A terrified servant rushed in, exclaiming,

"My Lord, the inner gate is forced. We have no means of resisting."

"It is long since," replied Coligny, calmly, "that I prepared myself to die. Save yourselves all who can. Me, you cannot defend. I commend my soul to the mercy of God."

He arose from his bed, and being unable to stand upright, on account of his wounds, supported himself with his back against the wall. The first who burst into his chamber was a grim German, servant to the Duke of Guise.

"Are you the Admiral?"

"Yes. I am he."

And the illustrious man, fixing his eyes without emotion on the naked sword of his murderer, said, with the dignity of a Christian,

"Young man! you ought to respect my age and infirmities."

The answer of the assassin was to plunge his weapon deep in that noble bosom. The Duke of Guise traversed the court below, with breathless impatience. To his fierce spirit, every moment seemed an age.

"Is the work done?" he asked.

"It is finished, my Lord!"

He demanded to see it, with his own eyes. They raised the body of the Admiral to cast it down to him. Still faintly respiring, it seemed to cling to the casement.

At length, the ruthless murderers precipitated it into the court-yard. Guise wiped with his handkerchief the face suffused with blood, and gazing intensely upon it by the flaring lamps, exclaimed,

"It is the man."

Rushing into the streets, he bade, with hoarse cries, the work of death to proceed, in the name of the king.

While our ancestor was hurrying in amazement and terror from place to place, he met a boy of nearly his own age, whose placid countenance and unmoved deportment strongly contrasted with the surrounding horrors. Two soldiers apparently had him in charge, shouting "_To mass! to mass!_" while he, neither in compliance nor opposition, calmly continued his course, until they found some more conspicuous object of barbarity, and released him from their grasp. This proved to be Maximilian Bethune, afterwards the great Duke of Sully, prime minister of Henry IV., who by a wonderful mixture of prudence and firmness, preserved a life which was to be of such value to the realm. He was at this time making his way through the infuriated mob, to the College of Burgundy, where in the friendship of its principal, La Faye, he found protection and safety."