Chapter IV: Preface (4)

Oh! bear her gently; lay her feeble form
Close by the lake, where beam the waters bright:
Oft has she watched from here the coming storm,
And oft, as now, the glow of evening's light.

Why weep her friends that fails her parting breath,
That cold the pressure of her powerless hand!
List!--Ye may hear from far the voice of death,
Calling from earth her soul to spirits' land.

Well do they know the fairies of the lake,
That with its waves have mingled oft her tears,
Here would she nature's solemn silence break
With the death-song of woman's hopes and fears.

I go,--I go,
Where is heard no more
The cry of sorrow or pain;
I will wait for you there,
Where skies are fair,
But I come not to earth again.

Mother, you weep!
Yet my body will sleep
Right near you, by night and by day:
And, when comes the white snow,
You will still weep, I know,
That the summer and I've passed away.

When the storm-spirit scowls,
When the winter-wind howls,
Oh! crouch not in cowardly fear.
Not unwatched, then, the form
That with life once was warm,--
My spirit will ever be near.

My sisters! full well
A dark tale I could tell,
How my lover in death slumbers sound:
My brother's strong arm,
Made the life-blood flow warm:
And he laughed as it covered the ground.

I heard his deep sigh,
I saw his closed eye,
I knew that life's struggle was past.
When his heart ceased to beat,
Then I wept at his feet,--
My first love, my only, my last.

Well my proud brother knew
That my heart was as true
To my love as the bird to its mate.
I go to him there,
Where flowers bloom fair:
Will his spirit the Drooping Eye wait?

Comes quickly my breath!
The dampness of death,
Oh! wipe from my brow with thy hand.
Earth's sorrows are o'er,
I may weep never more,--
Tears are not in that bright spirits' land.

OLD JOHN. THE MEDICINE-MAN.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

If ever "life was a fitful fever," it was with Old John, the Medicine-Man.

Coming to the Fort at times when you would not suppose any human being would expose himself to the elements,--always laughing, always hungry--seating himself before the fire to sleep, and starting up the moment his eyelids closed over his restless, twinkling eyes--talking for ever and singing in the same breath--troublesome and intrusive, yet always contriving to be of use. And useful he often was to an artist who was with us; for he would stand, sit, or lean, assuming and retaining the most painful attitudes, looking good-humoured all the time, and telling of his many wonderful adventures and hairbreadth escapes.

He came to us one day in the middle of winter, for the picture of the medicine-feast was in progress, and he had promised to show how the priest was to be represented, that the white people might know in very truth how were conducted the sacred ceremonies of the Dacotas.

While he warms himself, and eats, and smokes, he has as usual a great deal to say, and this in a half-muttered tone; for he is a little drowsy from the effect of the fire on his chilled limbs.

He takes from his head the three-cornered cloth hood which is worn by the men in severe weather, and throws his blanket a little from his shoulders, displaying his handsomely embroidered coat.

There is the strongest odour of smoke and stale tobacco from his dress, and he laughs heartily as we throw open the doors and windows for the benefit of the fresh air.

How many strange stories he has of the different medicine-feasts, and in each he figures largely. About some portions of the dance he is silent; you may question him closely, but you get no satisfactory answer.

He tells that the feast commences when there is no sun in the heavens; at midnight, when often even the moon and stars are hiding their light. He cannot tell white people what occurs then, nay, even the uninitiated Indians would not dare intrude themselves upon the scene; only the medicine-men and women are allowed to be present. Neither entreaties nor bribes have any effect: he will not intrust to your keeping the solemn secret. All we may know of this part of it is, that the feast is given in honour of some departed friend, and these ceremonies are taking place near where lies the body. A conversation is carried on with the dead, and food is placed near, that the spirit may eat.

"Bury my dead out of my sight." This is not the sentiment of the Dacota mourner. The mother wants her child to rest on the boughs of the tree, under which she has sat and lulled it to sleep in her arms. Here, while she works, she can see its form swayed by the branches, rocked by the summer winds: its innocent spirit, according to her faith, must still guard the decaying frame. She feels not the separation so keenly, when she fancies the soul of her first-born is hovering round her. She steals away from the noisy revelling in the wigwam to weep. She can hardly recall the bright eye and healthy glow, which once belonged to the lost one, but the suffering countenance and wasting frame are ever before her; and in the loud call of the night-bird, she often fancies she hears again the cry with which her young child yielded up its life.

Old John is telling of the medicine-feast. He shows us the medicine-bag which he uses: it is an otter skin, though sometimes a mink, a swan, or even a snake, is used, and often has he performed wonderful cures, or executed terrible vengeance, by the power of this medicine-bag.

He will not say what is the medicine which the skin contains; whether it is a root, or the leaf of a tree, a precious gum, a mineral substance, or the bone of some animal which has been preserved for centuries. He says that he breathed into the nostrils of the dead animal, and thus imparted to it qualities which made it sacred. Thus has he often restored to life the dying man, and by the same power has he cast the spell of misfortune, disease, and even death, upon one he hated. This is why he is so much feared.

Feared by all, but most by the women, Old John's eyes twinkled until you could only see a black line, when he told how he could frighten the women in the dance, by holding towards them the skin which contained the medicine of his clan.

As if to afford him an opportunity of proving the truth of his statements, two or three squaws had just brought venison to the kitchen, and we sent for them to pay them, and, at the same time, to give them the chance of talking a little--a privilege of which all women are glad to avail themselves.

The picture was half done; the medicine-man was to be represented jumping towards the women, with his dreaded medicine-bag; and Old John assured us it was invariably the case that the person he selected from the crowd fell down as if in a fit. This, he insisted, was purely the effect of his medicine. He offered to prove this by exercising his prerogative as a medicine-man upon the women who had just entered the room. The women were much fatigued, and glad of a chance to rest. They little expected to see any part of a medicine-feast celebrated in a white man's house.

The artist seated himself before his easel, and commenced sketching the figure of the medicine-man. Old John stoops, and holds the bag with both hands, as if ready to dart it towards some person. You wonder how he can retain his painful position so long a time. The veins in his temple swell, and his hands tremble, yet he does not offer to move until the sketch is made. Then, when told he is at liberty to sit down, he gives a merry, mischievous look towards us, and commences going round the room, singing with a loud voice, holding the bag as if about to avenge on some one present a long-remembered injury.

The women were taken completely by surprise. From the moment Old John commenced his performance in earnest, they showed every symptom of terror, now covering their faces with their hands, and crying "Enah! Enah!" and again, as the medicine-man passed round the room, looking after him as if he were something supernatural, instead of being a compound of art and wickedness. He was now going to embrace the opportunity that had presented itself to convince us of the ease with which he could excite the superstitious fears of these women.

He continued going round the room in measured time, and it was impossible not to observe the increasing awe which was stealing upon the women. He kept perfect time to his own music, stopping the while, as if absorbed in the thoughts attendant on the celebration of a religious ceremony--when suddenly he sprang towards the women, holding the bag close in the face of one of them.

The woman sank to the ground: a severe and stunning blow could not have had a more immediate effect on her system than the terror into which she had been thrown. She lay on the ground motionless, with her hands pressed over her eyes. Old John, perfectly satisfied with the result of his experiment, laid down his medicine-bag, and seated himself on the carpet.

We spoke to the woman, and endeavoured to rouse her. For some minutes she appeared not to hear; but, after arising, she looked as pale and ill as if she had indeed been in the presence of an evil spirit; and she was at that very time, for I doubt if in the Sioux or any other country a more determined and hopeless reprobate could be found than Old John.

I wondered to observe the trepidation into which a female of so strong and healthy a frame could be thrown. To what could it be ascribed, but to the influence of an all-powerful superstition on a mind chained by ignorance to its natural estate of dark degradation?

Among the most curious ideas of the Sioux are those concerning the Aurora Borealis, which is considered a kind of goddess of war. Old John will tell you all about her; for not only is he skilled in all that relates to the mysteries of his religion, but, if you will take his word for it, he has seen all kinds of visions. He will tell you how the gods look--for he has seen them at different times--and to no better person could you apply for information about the Aurora (as they call her, Waken-kedan, the old woman). He will tell you that she is one of their chief objects of worship; that her favour and protection are invoked as a necessary preparation for going to war.

Old John declares he has had several visions of the goddess. When she has appeared to him, she has given him the most minute directions as to the hiding-places of the enemy. Sometimes she insures success to the party;--if, however, she predicts misfortune, it is sure to occur.

The goddess, he says, wears little hoops on her arms. When she appears to the war-chief, if they are to be successful, she throws as many of these hoops on the ground as they are to take scalps. These hoops resemble the hoops that the Indians use in stretching the scalps of their enemies, when they are preparing for the scalp dance. But, should the goddess throw broken arrows on the ground, woe to the war-party! for this tells the chief how many of his comrades are to be scalped, an arrow for a scalp.

Sometimes, when the successful party is on its return, it is made more triumphant by the appearance of the goddess. She does not then take the form of a woman, but quietly enfolds the heavens with her robe of light. This they interpret as a favourable omen. The heavens, they say, are rejoicing on their account; the stars shine out brighter in honour of their victory; while, to use the Indian warrior's own words, it is as if their goddess said to them, "Rejoice and dance, my grandchildren, for I have given you victory." "The old woman," he says, wore a cap, on the top of which were little balls or knots, of the same kind with which warriors adorn themselves after having killed an enemy. She held in her hand an axe, with a fringe fastened to the handle: this represents an axe that has killed an enemy, as it is a universal custom among the Sioux to attach a strip of some kind of animal to the implement that was used in battle.

The Aurora appears and disappears at the pleasure of the goddess, or as she is sometimes called, "the old woman who sits in the north." It is not to be wondered at that the minds of this people should be thus impressed with the brilliant flashing of the Aurora, in their far northern home.

Her appearance is not always considered a favourable omen. Sometimes it is a warning of coming danger. The mind, overwhelmed with ignorance and superstition, is apt to read darkly the signs of nature; while a prospect of success in any contemplated undertaking will change the interpretation.

* * * * *

Old John loves to tell of another of his gods, the meteor; of this god they stand in great awe, calling him Waken-ne-ken-dah, or man of fire. He strides through the air to punish recreant Indians, who forget the claims of the Great Spirit upon them. Around this god is ever a circle of fire, while small meteors flow from this "great fiery man." In each hand he holds a war-club of bone, and every blow is fatal to that Sioux who deserves his condemnation. He is said to be very wily, attacking the Indians when they are asleep.

On this account Sioux are often timid about sleeping out of doors; they have traditions of Indians having been carried off by these errant meteors.

Old John thinks the "great fiery man" does not deserve a reputation for bravery, as he never attacks a waking foe. He says there was once a Sioux who, tired and sleepy, laid down, rolling himself in his blanket, though the weather was hot, for the musquitoes were biting him, and rendering it impossible that he should obtain any rest. The first thing of which he was conscious was the sensation of being whirled through the air, passing over miles of prairies and forests with the speed of light.

All at once they approached a small pond, which was full of mallard duck. The appearance of the meteor threw the inhabitants of the lake into the greatest trepidation, and in consequence a most unearthly quacking took place. The fiery man not being aware of the cause of this commotion, never having seen a duck, dropped his affrighted burden, gladly making his way back to the regions of space.

But it will be impossible to get anything more from Old John to-day: the savoury fumes of the kitchen have reached our sitting-room. He has done with the arts and with religion; he is enough of a philosopher to take the goods "the gods provide:" and the hearty dinner that he ate showed that the mystical attributes of a medicine-man did not prohibit him from the indulgence of his appetite; while the Sioux women were well repaid for their venison and their fright by some gaudy calico, for okendokendas, and a few needles, thread, and some other "notions," of great value among them.

A REMONSTRANCE.

BY ELIZA L. SPROAT.

While the warm, sweet earth rejoices,
And the forests, old and dim,
Populous with little voices,
Raise their trilling hymn,--
Chime _our_ notes in joyous pleading
With the million-tonéd day;
We are young, and Time is speeding--
Sweet Time, stay!

We would hold the hasty hours,
Ope them to the glowing core,
Leaf by leaf, like folded flowers,
Till they glow no more.
We are mated with the Present,
Bosom friends with dear To-day:
Loving best the latest minute,
Sweet Time, stay!

Sovereign Youth! all dainty spirits
Wait on us from earth and air;
From the common life distilling
But its essence rare.
Golden sounds, to Age so leaden,
Eden sights, to Age so drear:
Sweet illusions, subtle feelings,
Age would smile to hear.

Happy Youth! when fearless bosoms
With their wealth of follies rare,
Loose their thoughts, like summer blossoms,
To the generous air,
When we sit and mock at sorrow,
Looking in each other's eyes;
Greeting every new to-morrow
With a new surprise.

Father Time, if thou wert longing
For a luxury of rest,
I know where the moss is greenest,
Over toward the west:
I would hide thee where the shadows
Cheat the curious eye of day;
I would bury thee in blossoms--
Sweet Time, stay!

Where the bees are ever prosing,
Lulling all the air profound;
Where the wanton poppies, dozing,
Hang their heads around;
Where the rill is tripping ever,
Trilling ever on its way,
Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
All the happy day.

I would keep thee softly dreaming,
Dreaming of eternity,
Till the birds forget their sleeping
In the general glee;
Till the stars would lean from heaven
In the very face of day,
Looking vainly for the even--
Sweet Time, stay!

Hope is with us, chaunting ever
Of some fair untried to be;
Lurking Love hath prisoned never
Hearts so glad and free:
Yet, unseen, a fairy splendour
O'er the prosing world he flings;
Everywhere we hear the rushing
Of his rising wings.

As the tender crescent holdeth
All the moon within its rim,
So the silver present foldeth
All the future dim:
Oh! the _prophet_ moon is sweetest,
And the life is best to-day;
Life is best when Time is fleetest--
Sweet Time, stay!

A FINE ART DISREGARDED.

BY ELIZABETH WETHERELL,

AUTHOR OF "THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD."

"A man that looks on glass
On it may stay his eye;
Or, if he pleaseth, through it pass:
And then the heaven espy."

I took a walk with my father last evening. Now the pleasure of this walk was so great that I will even jot down some notes of its history.

It was just the pretty time of a summer's day,--the sun's "parting smile," when he has a mind to leave a pleasant impression behind him: the hot hours were past; the remnant of a sweet north wind, which had been blowing all day, just filled the sails of one or two sloops, and carried them lazily down the bay; and the sun, having taken up his old trade of a painter, coloured their white canvass for the very spots it filled in the picture: the same witching pencil was upon a magnificent rose-bush at the foot of the lawn, tinting its flowers for fairy-land; and had laid little stripes of fairy light across the lately-mown grass; and, through a slight haze of the delicious atmosphere, the hills were mellowed to a painter's wish.

My father and I strolled down the walk, and took one or two turns almost in silence, tasting all this too keenly at first to say much about it. There were beauties near hand too. The rose-trees had shaken out all their luxuriance, and defied the eye to admire aught else. Yet, but for them, there was enough to be admired. The pure Campanulas looked modestly confident of attractions; little Gilias filled their place in the world passing well; the sweet double pinks gave us a most good-humoured face as we went by; the tall white lily-buds showed beautiful indications; and some rare geraniums, and my splendid English heart's-ease quietly disdained or declined competition. And in that evening-light, even the flowers of humbler name and lower pretension, looked as if they cared not for it. Sprawling bachelor's-buttons, and stiff sweet-williams, and pert chrysanthemums, all were pretty under the sun's blessing; I think none were overlooked.

"How much pleasure we take in at the eye!" said my father.

"Where the eye has been opened," said I.

"Ay. How many people go through the world with their eyes tight shut;--not certainly to every matter of practical utility, but shut to all beautiful ends."

"Oh, those practical eyes!--the eyes that have no vision but for the _useful_,--what wearisome things they are!"

"It is but a moderate portion of the useful that they see," said my father;--"it was not an empty gratuity that things were made 'pleasant to the eyes.'"

"But how the eye needs to be educated," said I.

"Rather the mind, Cary," said my father. "Let the mind be educated to bring its faculty and taste into full play, and it will train its own spies fast enough."

"It was that I meant, papa,--that cultivation of taste;--I was thinking, before you spoke what a blessing it is."

"Why, yes," said my father; "with that piece to bring down game, one is in less danger of mental starvation. But hush; here comes somebody that won't understand you."

And as he spoke, I saw the trim little figure of Mrs. Roberts, one of our neighbours, come in sight round a turn in the shrubbery.

"What a lovely evening, Mrs. Roberts," said I, as we met.

"Delicious!--such charming weather for the grass and the dairy, and everything. It was so fine, I told Mr. Roberts I would just run down and see your mamma for a minute; I wanted to ask her a question. I shall find her at home, shan't I?"

I satisfied Mrs. Roberts on that point, and my father and I turned to walk back to the house with her, thinking that our pleasure was over.

"The roses are in great beauty now," I remarked.

"Beautiful!--and what an immense quantity of them you have. I don't know what ails our roses, but we can't make them do, somehow. They seem to get a kind of blight when they're about half open, and what are not blighted are full of bugs. What do you do with the bugs? I don't see that you have any."

I suggested the effectiveness of daily hand-picking.

"Oh, but bless me! it's so much trouble. Mr. Roberts would never let the time be taken for it. How stout your grass is! It's a great deal stouter than ours. There's half as much again of it, I'm sure. And you're cutting it! We haven't begun to cut yet; Mr. Roberts thought he'd let it stand as long as he could, to give it a chance; but I'm sure it's time. What do you do with all your roses?--make rose-water?"

I said no.

"I never saw such a quantity! I'll tell you what--if you'll send me a basket or two of 'em, _I'll_ make some rose-water, and you shall have half of it. Oh, what beautiful heart's-ease! My dear Caroline, you must just give me one of those for my girls, for a pattern; you know they are making artificial flowers, and they want some of these for their bonnets. Really, they are quite equal to the French ones, _I_ think, and--thank you!--that is superb. Now, my dear Caroline, one more--that one with so much yellow in it;--want a little variety, you know. They will be delighted. You know it is just the fashion."

"I did not, indeed, Mrs. Roberts."

"Didn't you? They wear little open bonnets of some light straw--rice is the prettiest, or some kind of open-work--and here, at the side, just here, a bunch of heart's-ease, right against the side of the head;--it is very elegant."

"Caroline has bad taste," said my father gravely; "she never wears heart's-ease in a bonnet."

"O no, of course, not these,--she is too careful of them--but you know false heart's-ease, I mean. No, go on with your walk--you shall not come in--I am not going to stay a minute."

And my father and I quietly turned about and went down the walk again.

"False heart's-ease!" said my father.

"What a different thing all this scene is to those eyes, and to ours, papa."

"Yes," said my father. "Poor woman!--she carries a portable kitchen and store-closet in her head, I believe, and everything she sees goes into the one or the other."

"Poor Mrs. Roberts!" said I, laughing. "Now that is the want of cultivation, papa."

"Not entirely, perhaps. There must be soil first to cultivate, Cary."

"Well, her want is the same. And how much is lost for that want!"

"Lost?--what is lost?" said another voice behind us; and turning, we welcomed another and a very different neighbour, in our old friend Mr. Ricardo.

"What is lost?"

"Happiness," said I.

"For the want of what?"

"For the want of a cultivated taste."

"Pshaw!" said Mr. Ricardo, letting go my hand. "_That_ has nothing to do with happiness."

"Do you think so, sir?"

"Certainly. What can a cultivated taste do for you, but create imaginary wants, that you would do just as well without?"

"If you have not them, you have not the exquisite pleasure of gratifying them."

"Well, and what if you haven't? How are you the worse off? The want that is not known is not felt."

"But the range of pleasure is a very different thing without them," said I.

"And character is a very different thing," said my father.

"Character?" said Mr. Ricardo.

"Yes," said my father.

"I should like to hear you make that out."

"And so should I," said I. "I was arguing only for enjoyment--I did not venture so far as that."

"Well, enjoyment," said Mr. Ricardo. "Do you think you have more enjoyment here now, than one of the plain sons of the soil, who would see nothing in roses but roses, and who would call 'Viola tricolor' a 'Johnny-jump-up?'"

"In the first place, learning is not taste; and, in the second place, you do not mean what you say, Mr. Ricardo. You know what Dr. Johnson says of the quart pot and the pint pot--both may be equally full, but the one holds twice as much as the other."

"Ah, Dr. Johnson!" said Mr. Ricardo, with an odd little flourishing wave of his hand; "you delude yourself! The quart pot is twice as likely to be spilled. If you have some pleasures that other people haven't, you have pains of your own, too, that they are exempt from. Now I suppose a little mal-adjustment of proportions--a little deviating from the exquisite line of correctness in men or things--would overturn your whole cup of enjoyment, while his or mine would stand as firm as ever."

"But perhaps a sip of mine would be worth his entire cupful."

"Now," said Mr. Ricardo, not minding me, "I fell in with a family once--it was at the West, when I was travelling there. They were good, plain, sensible, excellent people, happy in each other, and contented with the rest of the world. They had everything within themselves, and lived in the greatest comfort, and harmony, and plenty. I was with them several days, and it occurred to me that people could not be happier than they were."

"But for your bringing them up as instances, I suppose their having 'everything within themselves' did not include the pleasures of a cultivated intelligence?"

"Well, I don't suppose they would have quoted Dr. Johnson to me. But now of what use to them would be all that extra cultivation?"

"Of what use to you," said my father, "is that window you had cut in your library this spring, that looks to the west?"

"Of very little use," said Mr. Ricardo, "for my wife sits in it all the time."

"Ah, Mr. Ricardo!" said I, laughing.

"Well, now," said he, but his face gave way a little, "how are you any better off than those people?"

"I don't wish to make myself an example, sir; but put them down here this evening, and what would they see in all this that we have been enjoying?"

"They would see what you see, I suppose. They had reasonably good eyes--they were not microscopes or telescopes."

"Precisely," said my father. "They would see what mere ordinary vision could take in, _without_ the quick discernment of finely trained sensibilities, and without the far-reaching and wide views of a mind rich in knowledge and associations. Where cultivated senses find a rare mingling of flavours, theirs would at best only perceive the difference of stronger or fainter--of more or less sweet."

"Senses literal or figurative, do you mean?"

"Both," said my father. "You rarely find the one cultivated without the other."

"You may find the other without the one," said Mr. Ricardo. "I knew a man once who had no aptness for anything but judging of wines, and he was curious at that. He did it mostly by the sense of smell, too. All the mind the man had seemed to reside in his nose."

"That is an instance of morbid development," said my father, smiling, "not in point."

"You would have thought it was in point, if you had seen him," said Mr. Ricardo, glancing at my father.

"But the pleasures of a cultivated taste, Mr. Ricardo," said I, "may be constantly enjoyed; and they are some of the purest, and most satisfying, and most unmixed that we have."

"And, I maintain, of the most useful," said my father.

"To the character," said Mr. Ricardo. "But I do not believe that, where they most prevail, are to be found in general the strongest minds or the most hopeful class of our population."

"My good sir," said my father, "do not confound things that have nothing to do with each other. That may be true, and it may be equally true of sundry other matters, such as correct pronunciation and the usages of polite society, Mocha coffee and fine broadcloth,--none of which, I hope, have any deleterious effect upon mind."

"Well, go on," said Mr. Ricardo, without looking at him, "let us hear how you make out your case."

"Learning to draw nice distinctions, to feel shades of difference, becoming alive to the perception and enjoyment of most fine and delicate influences, the mind acquires a _habit of being_ which will discover itself in other matters than those of pure taste. This faculty of nice discrimination and quick feeling cannot be in high exercise in one department alone, without being applied more or less generally to other subjects. It will develope itself in the ordinary intercourse and relations of social and domestic life, and the _tendency_ will be to the producing or perfecting of that nice sense of proprieties, that quick feeling of what is due to or from others, which we call tact."

"But tact cannot be given, papa," said I.

"And how is it useful if it could?" said Mr. Ricardo.

"Useful?" said my father, meditating--"why, sir, the want of it is a death-blow to I know not what proportion of the efforts that are made after usefulness. How many an appeal from the pulpit has been ruined, simply by bringing in a coarse or unhappy figure, which the speaker's want of cultivation did not allow him to appreciate! How many a word, intended for counsel or kindness, has fallen to the ground, because the kindly person did not know how to work out his intentions!"

"But, you cannot give tact, father," I repeated.

"No, Cary--that is true--tact cannot be _given_; it is the growth only of minds endowed with peculiarly fine sensibilities; but the mind trained to nice judging in one set of matters can exercise the same acumen upon others, so soon as its attention is fairly called out to them. Taste is a thing of particular growth and cultivation in each separate branch; but certainly the mind that has attained high excellence in one is finely prepared to take lessons in another."

"There may be something in that," said Mr. Ricardo, as if he thought there wasn't much.

"But, beyond that," said my father, "the cultivation of taste opens truly a new world of enjoyment utterly closed to every one destitute of it. Nature's stores of beauty and wonder, the fine analogies of moral truth that lie hidden under them, the new setting forth of nature which is Art's beautiful work,--how numberless, how measureless the sources of pleasure to the mind once quickened to see and taste them! Once quickened, it will not cease to rejoice in them, and more and more. And as the mind always assimilates itself to those objects with which it is very conversant, and as these sources of pleasure are all pure, it follows, that not only a refined but a purifying influence also is at work in all this; and the result should be, if nothing untoward counteract, that everything gross, everything _improper_, in the strict sense of the word, everything unseemly, unlovely, impure, becomes disgustful, and more and more. And whatever is the reverse of these meets with a juster appreciation, a keener relish, a truer love than could be felt for them by a mind not so cultivated. This refining and purifying effect will be seen in the whole character. It will make those solid qualities, which are, indeed, more worth in themselves, show with yet new lustre and tell with higher effect, and not the outward attire only, but the very inward graces of the mind will be worn with a more perfect adjustment."

"Hum--well," said Mr. Ricardo, about a minute after my father had done speaking, "you have made a pretty fair case of it."

My father smiled, and we all three paced up and down the walk in silence. I thought we had done with the subject.

"That's a beautiful sky!" said Mr. Ricardo, coming to a stand, with his face to the west.

"Look down yonder," said my father.

In the southwestern quarter lay a beautiful fleecy mass of cloud: the under edges touched with exquisite rose-colour, sailing slowly down the sky--pushed by that same faint north wind. Just over it--just over it, sat a little star, shining at us with its unchanging ray.

"Would your Tennessee friends see enough there to hold their thoughts for half a minute?" said I, when we had looked as long; but Mr. Ricardo did not answer me.

"That painted cloud," said my father, "is like the pleasures of earth--catching the eye with fair hues; the star, like the better pleasures, that have their source above the earth. That light fills, indeed, it may be, a much smaller space in our eye, or our fancy, than the colours on the cloud; but mark,--it is pure, bright, and undying, while the other is a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away."

I looked at the star, and I looked at my father, and my heart was full. I thought Mr. Ricardo had got enough, and I think he thought so too, for when we reached the far end of the walk, he left us, with a very hearty shake of the hand, indeed.

My father and I walked then, without talking any more, till glow after glow passed away and night had set in. The little cloud had lost all its fair colours, and had drifted far down into the southern sky, a soft rack of gray vapour, and the star was shining steadily and brightly as ever in the deepening blue.

C. Schuessele del. Drawn by Cap^{t.} S. Eastman.
Chromolith of P. S. Duval Phil.

MISSION CHAPEL OF SAN JOSE, NEAR SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS.]

THE MISSION CHURCH OF SAN JOSÉ.[19]

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

Not far from San Antonio,
Stands the Church of San José;
Brightly its walls are gilded
With the sun's departing ray.
The long grass twines the arches through,
And, stirred by evening air,
Wave gracefully the vine's dark leaves,
And bends the prickly pear.

High, from its broken, mouldering top,
The holy cross looks down,
While round the open portals stand
Figures of saints in stone.
And round its ancient spires,
In the turrets wide and high,
While you watch the night-birds flap their wings,
You hear their piercing cry.

And ever and anon the bats,
In clusters, seek their homes,
As night, with shrouding mantle,
On the Mission Chapel comes.
Oh! 'twas not thus, when Jesuit priests
Their chaunt at evening sung,
As, echoing o'er the river's shores,
The vesper bells were rung.

Now, while we linger round its walls,
Its history would we learn?--
How San José's walls and spires rose up?--
To its legends we must turn.
In learning high, and cunning deep,
With wealth and numbers, come--
Christians to make the red men all--
These haughty priests of Rome.

Did they tell them they were brothers?
That every human heart
Was a link in love's great chain--
Of salvation's scheme a part?
Not they: they bade them hew the stone,
And bear its heavy weight;
And, while they used the Indian's strength,
They gained his fiercest hate.

But towers, and spires, and steeples rise,
And the Church of San José
Arrests the traveller, who kneels,
Then passes on his way.
Turning once more, to bend before
The Virgin and her Son,
The Cherubim and Seraphim
From his strained gaze are gone.

No converts from the red men
Made these haughty priests of Rome;
But still on ignorance and vice
The holy cross looked down,
Though Jesus, with the crown of thorns,
The offering made for sin,
And the vase of holy water,
Borne by angels, stood within.

Rich tapestries, and gilded signs,
And images stood forth,
And the patron saint, San José--
Were all these nothing worth?
"The red man's heart is adamant,"
Thus do the Jesuits say;
"Unmoved they see these splendours--
Unchanged they turn away."

Not under stern and unjust rule
The red man's heart will melt,
But by such gentle, sorrowing love,
As Christ for mortals felt.
Oh! that the star might shine for them,
That unto us is given,
To cheer our dreary path on earth,
And guide our steps to heaven.

Let the ruins of her glory stand,
A monument to art;
But the temple of the Living God
Should be the human heart;
While mouldering in tower and wall,
And bending in decay,
Do we gaze upon this chapel fair,
The Church of San José.

[Footnote 19: San José is the most interesting of the ruins of the mission chapels in Texas. There are five of them,--the chapel of the Alamo, at San Antonio; Chapel of Conception, two miles from San Antonio; Chapel of San José, five miles from San Antonio; Chapel of San Juan, ten miles from the same place; and one other near Goliad. These chapels were built by the Jesuits, at the time when they contemplated Christianizing the Indians of Mexico. The Indians were obliged to assist in the labour. The chapels are all in a state of ruin. On the top of San José, near the large cross at its foot, a peach tree grows. Occasionally there is some sort of service performed in them. There is a great deal of carving about them, and remains of former splendour; but they have become refuges for the bats and owls, which are for ever flying in and about them.]

HAWKING.

BY EDITH MAY.

She had drawn rein within the castle court
Under its arching gateway, and there stood,
Curbing the hot steed that, with upreared hoofs,
Bearing upon the gilded bit, pressed forward.
Her eyes had measured distance, and her lips,
Parted and eager, seemed to drink the air
Now fresh with morning, and her light form kept
Its throne exultingly. A single plume
Waved from her hunting-cap, and the quick wind
Close to the floating ringlets of her hair
Pressed down its snowy fringes. But the folds
Of her rich dress hung motionless, and its hem
Swept to the shaven turf. Near by, a page
Held in a leash of greyhounds, and a hawk
Sat hooded on the bend of her gloved wrist.

HILLSIDE COTTAGE.

BY MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR.

There was no spot in all Elmwood that we children so dearly loved to visit as Hillside Cottage. No matter where our wanderings began--whether we started for the meadow, in pursuit of the rich strawberry--for the thick woods, where the wild flowers bloomed so luxuriantly, and the bright scarlet clusters of the partridge-berry, contrasting beautifully with its dark green leaves, sprang up at our feet--for the brook, to gather the shining pebbles, or to watch the speckled trout, as they darted swiftly through the water--no matter where our wanderings began, it was a strange thing if they did not terminate somewhere about the sweet wild place where Aunt Mary lived.

Now, prythee, gentle reader, do not picture to your "mind's eye" a stately mansion with an unpretending name, when you read of Hillside Cottage. Neither was it a cottage _ornée_, with piazzas, and columns, and Venetian blinds. It was a low-roofed dwelling, and its walls had never been visited by a single touch of the painter's brush: but the wild vines had sprung up around it, until their interlacing tendrils formed a beautiful network nearly all over the little building; and the moss upon the roof had been gathering there for many years, growing thicker and greener after the snows of each succeeding winter had rested upon it. It stood, as the name given it by the villagers indicated, upon the hillside, just in the edge of the woods that nearly covered the rounded summit of the hill; a little rivulet danced along, almost beneath the very windows, and at a short distance below fell over a ledge of rocks, forming a small but beautiful cascade, then, tired of its gambols, it flowed onwards as demurely as if it had never leaped gaily in the sunlight, or frolicked, like a child at play, with every flower that bent to kiss its bright waters. We thought there was no place where the birds sang half so sweetly, or where the air was so laden with fragrance; and sure am I there was no place where we were more cordially welcomed than in Aunt Mary's cottage.

I well remember Aunt Mary's first arrival in Elmwood. For two or three weeks it had been rumoured that the cottage on the hill was to receive a new tenant. Some slight repairs were going on, and some one had seen a wagon, loaded with furniture, unladen at the door. This was enough to excite village curiosity; and when we assembled in the church, the next Sabbath, I fear that more than one eye wandered from the pulpit to the door, to catch the first glimpse of our new neighbour. Just as our old pastor was commencing the morning service, a lady, entirely unattended, came slowly up the aisle, and entered the pew designated by the sexton. Her tall and graceful figure was robed in deepest black, and it was evident that grief, rather than years, had dimmed the brightness of her eye, and driven the rich colouring of youth and health from her cheek. But there was something in the quiet, subdued glance of those large, thoughtful eyes, in the intellect that seemed throned upon her lofty forehead, and in the sweet and tender expression that played around her small and delicately formed mouth, that more than compensated for the absence of youthful bloom and freshness. I did not think of these things then; but, child that I was, after one glance I shrank back in my seat, awe-struck and abashed by the dignity of her bearing. Yet when she rose from her knees, and I caught another glimpse of her pale face, my little heart seemed drawn towards her by some powerful spell; and after service was concluded, as we passed down the aisle side by side, I timidly placed in her hand a wild rose I had gathered on my way to church. She took it with a smile, and in a sweet low voice thanked me for the simple gift. Our homes lay in the same direction, and ere we reached my father's gate I imagined myself well acquainted with Miss Atherton.

From that hour my visits to Hillside Cottage were neither "few" nor "far between." My parents laughed at my enthusiastic praises of my new friend; but they soon became assured that they were well grounded: and it was not long before the answer, "Oh, she has only gone to see Aunt Mary," was the most satisfactory one that could be given to the oft-repeated query, "Where in the world _has_ Jessie gone now?"

She lived almost the life of a recluse; seldom mingling with the villagers, save in the services of the sanctuary, or when, like a ministering angel, she hovered around the couch of the dying. Formed to be an ornament to any circle, and to attract admiration and attention wherever she moved, she yet shrank from public notice, and was rarely seen, except by those who sought her society in her own little cottage. To those few it was evident that her love of seclusion was rather the effect of some deep grief, that had in early life cast its shadow over her pathway, than the constitutional tendency of her mind. Hers was a character singularly lovely and symmetrical. With a mind strong, clear, and discriminating, she yet possessed all those finer shades of fancy and feeling, all that confiding tenderness, all those womanly sympathies, and all that delicacy and refinement of thought and manner which, in the opinion of many, can rarely be found _in woman_, combined with a high degree of talent. Love of the beautiful and sublime was with her almost a passion, and conversing with her, when animated by her favourite theme, was like reading a page of rare poetry, or gazing upon a series of paintings, the work of a well-skilled hand.

Years passed on. The little village of Elmwood had increased in size, if not in comeliness: the old church had given place to one of statelier mien and prouder vestments, and the winding lane, with its primroses and violets, had become a busy street, with tall rows of brick bordering it on either side. But still the cottage on the hill remained quiet and peaceful as ever, undisturbed by the changes that were at work beneath it. A silver thread might now and then be traced amid the abundant raven tresses that were parted on Aunt Mary's forehead; and my childish curls had grown darker, and were arranged with more precision than of yore. Yet still the friendship of earlier years remained unbroken, and a week seldom passed without finding me at Hillside Cottage. My visits had of late been more frequent than ever, for the time was drawing near when our intimacy must be interrupted. I was soon to leave my father's roof, for a new home in a far-off clime, and to exchange the love and tenderness that had ever been lavished upon me there for a nearer and more engrossing attachment.

It was the evening before my bridal. I had stolen away unperceived, for I could not resist the temptation of one more quiet chat with Aunt Mary.

"I scarcely expected you to-night, my dear Jessie," said she, as I entered, "but you are none the less welcome. Do you know I am very selfish to-night? When I ought to be rejoicing in your happiness, my heart is heavy, because I feel that I can no longer be to you what I have been, chief friend and confidant. Oh! I shall indeed miss my little Jessie."

"You will always be to me just what you have been, Aunt Mary," I replied, and tears filled my eyes, as I threw myself upon a low seat at her feet. "You must not think that because I am a wife, I shall love my old friends any the less: and you of all others, you who have been to me as a dear, dear elder sister,--you who have instructed and counselled me, and have shared all my thoughts and feelings since I was a little child; oh! do you think any one can come between our hearts? We may not meet as frequently as we have done, but you will ever find me just the same, and I shall tell you all my thoughts, and all my cares and sorrows, and all my joys too, just as I always have done."

"No, no, Jessie, say not so. That may not be. You may love me just as well, but you will love another more. Your heart _cannot_ be open to me as it has been, for it will belong to another. Its hopes, its fears, its joys, its sorrows, its cares, its love, will all be so intimately blended with those of another, that they cannot be separated. No wife, provided the relations existing between her husband and herself are what they should be, can be to _any_ other friend exactly what she was before her marriage."

"Why, Aunt Mary!--you surely do not mean to say that a wife should never have any confidential friends?"

"The history of woman, dear Jessie, is generally simply a record of the workings of her own heart; in ordinary cases, she has little else to consider. 'The world of the affections is her world,' and there finds she her appropriate sphere of action. What I mean to say is,--not that a wife should have no friend save her husband,--but that, if the hearts of the twain are as closely linked together as they should be, if they always beat in perfect unison, and if their thoughts and feelings harmonize as they ought to do, it will be difficult for her to draw aside the veil from her own heart, and lay it open to the gaze of any other being, without, in some degree, betraying the confidence reposed in her by him who should be nearer and dearer than all the world beside. The heart is like a temple, Jessie. It has its outer and its inner court, and it has also its holy of holies. The outer court is full: common acquaintances,--those that we call friends, merely because they are not enemies,--are gathered there. The inner court but few may enter,--the few who we feel love us, and to whom we are united by the strong bonds of sympathy; but the sanctum sanctorum, the holy of holies, that must never be profaned by alien footsteps, or by the tread of any, save him to whom the wife hath said, 'Whither thou goest I will go, thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.'"

The deepening twilight hung over us, wrapping all things in its sombre mantle, and its solemn stillness fell with soft, subduing power upon our hearts, as we sat, for many moments, each lost in reverie, ere I spoke again.

"Aunt Mary, why were you never married?"

"Rather an abrupt question that, my love. What if I say, in the words of the old song, because 'nobody ever came wooing me?'"

"Nay, nay, Aunt Mary, I know you have never passed through life unloved, and I have sometimes fancied not unloving either. But pardon me, I fear my obtrusive curiosity has given you pain," I added quickly, as in the dim light I saw that her pale cheek was growing still paler, and that deep, though subdued, anguish was stamped in legible characters upon her brow.

"I have nought to pardon, my child, for our long familiarity has given you a right to ask the question; and I wonder that you have never made the inquiry before, rather than that you make it now. The history of my early life is a sad one, but you shall hear it, and know why I am now such a lone and isolated being.

"Upon the early part of my life it will be necessary for me to dwell but slightly. My childhood passed dreamily away, marked by no event of sufficient importance to leave a very deep impression upon my mind. An only child, I was my father's idol, and he loved me none the less tenderly, because the destroying angel had snatched his young wife from his bosom, and I was all that was left to him of her. I was very young when my mother died--too young to appreciate the magnitude of my loss, or to feel that I was motherless. Yet I have an indistinct recollection of a sweet, girlish face, that used to bend over my couch, and of a melodious voice that was wont to lull me to my baby slumbers. The remembrance is a very faint one, but I have never thought of angels in my dreams, or in my waking hours, when the vision did not wear the semblance of my mother's face, nor of angel voices without in fancy hearing again my mother's low, soft tones.