Chapter V: Preface (5)

"As I grew older, the best instructors in the country were procured for me, and I was taught all the accomplishments of the day, while, at the same time, I was not allowed to neglect any of the plainer, but equally important branches of female education. At last my education was completed, and 'I came out' under auspices as flattering as those under which any young girl ever made her debut upon the stage of life. The harsh fingers of Time have wrought such changes upon my face and form, that you may find it difficult to believe that in my youth I was called beautiful. Yet so it was, and this, together with my father's station in society and reputation for wealth, drew a crowd of admirers around me. One of my father's chief sources of delight, was the exercise of an almost prodigal hospitality, and he dearly loved to see me, attired with all the elegance that his ample means could afford, presiding at his table, or moving among our guests, in his fond eyes 'the star of the goodly companie.'

"It was by the bedside of his dying sister, that I first met Walter Elmore. Effie had been a schoolmate of mine, and an intimate friendship had sprung up between us. Sisterless as I was, I had learned to cherish for her almost a sister's love. Soon after we left school, her father removed his residence from a distant part of the country to the city near which mine resided, and our girlish attachment was cemented and strengthened, as we entered, hand in hand, upon the duties and pleasures of early womanhood.

"Effie's constitution was naturally weak, and she had been subject from her childhood to a slight cough; but her friends gave little heed to it, as the buoyancy of her spirits and her unchanged demeanour seemed to preclude the idea of any seated complaint. But the destroyer came, and disease had made fearful havoc before we awoke to a sense of her danger. I was with her day and night for a few weeks, and then Effie Elmore, in her youth and loveliness, slept the 'sleep that knows no waking.'

"Her brother, of whom I had often heard her speak in terms of enthusiastic fondness, had been abroad, completing his studies, and I never met him until we stood, side by side, gazing upon the calm, still face of the beautiful being whom we both so tenderly loved.

"It is needless for me to say that from that hour we met often. At my father's house he became a frequent and a welcome guest; and we met too, at no distant intervals, by Effie's grave, in her favourite walks, and in every nook that had been made sacred by her presence. We thought that it was our mutual love for the departed that drew us together; we thought it was her memory, and the recollection of the hour when first we met, that made us seek each other's society, and that rendered the moments we spent together so dear to us both; but ah me! but few months had rolled over our heads before we found that it was even a stronger tie; that it was the mystic chain that binds heart to heart, the deep love of congenial spirits.

"And Walter Elmore was indeed one that any maiden might be proud of loving. His face and figure were cast in nature's finest mould. But that were nothing--it is of the nobleness of his character of which I would speak. Proud and high-spirited even to a fault, he could not stoop to a mean or unworthy action. Generous and confiding, his soul was filled with all true and noble impulses, and his heart was the home of pure and elevated affections. His intellectual powers were such as to win the admiration and esteem of all who knew him, and he possessed also the rare gift of eloquence,--a gift that seldom fails to find its way to a woman's heart. What wonder was it then that I yielded mine to him wholly and unreservedly, and soon learned to listen for his footstep, as I listened for no other? My father smiled upon his suit, and gave it his unqualified approbation. Elmore was not wealthy, but his family was one of the first in the country, and my father was proud of his brilliant talents and untarnished name. I had wealth enough for both, and it was decided that upon my twentieth birthday our nuptials should be celebrated.

"Alas! how little know we of the future! Ere that day came, I was penniless--I had almost said a penniless orphan. My father's capital was all invested in the business transactions of two of the oldest, and, it was supposed, the wealthiest houses in New York. Two successive weeks brought news of the failure of both firms, and he found himself, when far advanced in life, stripped of the fortune he had acquired by his own hard exertions in earlier years, and utterly destitute. He sank beneath the blow, and for weeks I hung over his couch, fearing each night that the next rising sun would see me an orphan.

"He rose at length from that bed of suffering, but oh, how changed! His hair, which had before but lightly felt the touch of time, was white as snow; his once erect form was bent and trembling; his eye had lost its lustre, and what was far more sad than all, his mental vigour had departed, and he was as imbecile and feeble as a little child. Accustomed as I had ever been to lean upon his strong arm for support, to look to him for guidance and direction in all things, I was now obliged to summon all my fortitude, and be to him in turn protector and guardian.

"The whole of our property was gone, our ruin was complete, and for a time I was overwhelmed by the new and strange cares that were pressing so heavily upon me. But I soon found that it was time for me to _act_ rather than mourn, and I began to look around me for some means by which to obtain a comfortable livelihood for my poor father. I might have obtained a situation as governess, where the labour would be light, and the salary more than sufficient for my wants; but in that case I must be separated from my parent, and leave him to the tender mercies of strangers. The same objection arose in my mind in connexion with almost every course that presented itself, and I finally concluded upon renting a small house in a pleasant little village not far from the city, where I could obtain a few pupils, and still be able to watch over my feeble charge.

"It was in the 'merry, merry month of May,' that the news of our reverses came, but it was late in October before we left our home, that home rendered sacred by so many hallowed associations. The intervening months had been spent by me in watching over the sick couch of my aged parent, in striving to compose my own agitated spirits, and to gain sufficient courage to gaze unshrinkingly upon the new and strange pathway I was about to tread.

"Slowly and wearily passed they away, and the day at length dawned that was to witness our departure. All was bright and joyous in the outer world. The air was soft and balmy as a morning in June. The trees were just changing their green summer robes for the gorgeous attire of autumn, with its rich colouring and brilliant dyes; and the sky was as cloudless as if the storm-king had been dethroned, and his banners furled for ever. The house, and everything around it, presented much the same appearance as in happier days; for the gentleman who had purchased it had bought the furniture also, with the exception of a few indispensable articles, that the kindness of the creditors allowed us to retain for our new dwelling.

"But oh, the darkness of the inner world! the gloom in which my own soul was wrapped, when I awoke from a short and troubled sleep, and the thought fell as a dull, sickening weight upon my heart, that I had slept for the last time in that quiet chamber! I passed from room to room, and every step but added to my grief. Here was the nursery and the little crib, where I could just remember sleeping in my very babyhood; here the retired study, with its perfect stillness, and the light coming in so stealthily through the stained glass; here the library, my father's favourite apartment, and there, in the recess with its bay window, the arm-chair that had ever been his chosen resting-place; and here the room where my mother had lain, in her quiet beauty, ere the coffin-lid was closed, and she was borne hence for ever.

"In a distant part of the grounds, where the forest-trees had not yet fallen, and where the hand of art had done little more than to clear away the tangled underbrush, there was a small plot enclosed by a stone wall, over which wild vines and running mosses had been trained until the gray stones were almost entirely hidden. The grass in the enclosure was of the deepest green, and shaded though it was by the overhanging trees, there had not a faded leaf or a withered branch been suffered to rest upon it. In the centre was a mound of earth, and over it a slab of white marble, upon which lay the sculptured image of a woman, young and of surpassing loveliness. She lay as if in sleep, one rounded arm thrown over her head, and the other dropping by her side; while from the half-opened hand a white rose-bud had seemingly just fallen. It was my mother's burial-place, and I bent my steps thitherward that I might cast one farewell look upon it, before it passed into the possession of strangers. A tide of softening recollections swept over me as I stood by the grave, and falling upon my knees, I poured out my full heart in prayer.

"'Oh, when the heart is sad--when bitter thoughts
Are crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor, common words of courtesy
Are such a bitter mocking--how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!'

I rose from my knees calmer than I had been for many weeks. I was sad, but not despairing,--and felt again, what in my despondency I had well-nigh forgotten, that I was in the hands of One who careth for His children.

"When I returned to the house, I found the vehicle that was to convey us away waiting at the door. My father was already in his seat, and I sprang quickly in, not trusting myself to cast another look around me. He--thanks to his weakness and imbecility--had partaken little of my dread or agony. Provided his daily wants were supplied, it mattered little to him where his lot was cast."

"But, Aunt Mary, where was Walter Elmore all this time?"

"I should have told you, my love, that business of vital importance called him to a distant part of the country a short time previous to our misfortunes, and there detained him. He was kept apprised by my letters, however, of all that had befallen us, and hastened to my side as soon as he returned. He vehemently opposed my pursuance of the course I had marked out for myself, and with all the eloquence and earnestness of love, besought me to become his wife at once, and give him a right to protect and guard me.

"But fervently as he prayed, and strongly as my own heart seconded his entreaties, I could not yield. I had thought that it was to be my blessed privilege to aid and assist him I loved; to place him where it would no longer be necessary for him to confine his noble mind to close and ceaseless drudgery, and constant toil for his daily bread. And how could I now consent to be a drawback upon his efforts, and to burden him with the care of my helpless parent?

"'No, no, Walter,' said I, in reply to his oft-repeated solicitations; 'urge me no longer. For the present our paths must be separated. Your task will be hard enough, while you are taking the first steps towards acquiring a name and a competence, even if you have no interests but your own to regard. Were I alone in the world, I would joyfully link my fate with yours, and we would toil together, side by side. But as it is, it may not be. My father cannot understand why he need be deprived of any of his accustomed luxuries. Be it my care that he misses them not. I will labour for his sustenance and my own, until you are so circumstanced that, without detriment to your own prospects, you can relieve me of the charge. _Then_ come to me, and the hand pledged to you in brighter days shall be yours!'

"A year passed not unhappily away in the earnest and faithful discharge of the new duties devolving upon me. My school flourished beyond my expectations. I had gained the esteem and confidence of those around me, and I found no difficulty in supplying our daily wants. Elmore was in an adjacent city, in the office of an eminent lawyer, who, it was imagined, would ere long make him a partner in his business. During the last few months his visits had been less frequent than of yore. Rumour told strange tales of a young and exceedingly beautiful girl, the sister of his employer, who was playing the mischief with the hearts and brains of half the young men in M----, and more than hinted that my lover was among the number of her admirers. Things went on thus for some time. I fancied that, when we met, which was rarely, his manner was cold and reserved, and that he seemed to shrink from my presence. I now know that my own jealous fancies threw a false colouring over all his actions, and that, if there was any coldness in his demeanour, it sprang from the unusual, and, in fact, unintended reserve of mine.

"At last I heard, from the lips of one whose veracity and friendship I thought I could not question, that his leisure hours were all spent in the society of my supposed rival, and that, when rallied by some of his associates with regard to myself, he had denied our engagement, and spoken lightly and contemptuously of the 'school-mistress.'

"A thousand contending passions were striving for the mastery in my breast, when, upon the evening of that day, after its weary labours were over, I threw myself upon a low seat in the room that served alike as school-room and parlour. Woman's pride--and who does not know that 'there is not a high thing out of heaven her pride o'er-mastereth not?'--was all aroused. Memory was wide awake, bringing back the recollection of by-gone days, when my hand had been sought by the proudest in the land. Then came thoughts of our early love--of the exquisite happiness that had filled my heart, when I had so rejoiced that wealth was at my command, and that I could place it all at the feet of one whom I deemed so noble and so pure--and of a later period, when, rather than place the slightest barrier in his way to fame and fortune, I had resisted all his entreaties, and confined myself to close and unremitting toil. It was at this very moment when I was half maddened by the retrospect, that the door opened, and Walter Elmore entered.

"Hastily rising, with every appearance of calmness, I received him with a cold and stately courtesy, surprising even to myself.

"'What means this, Mary?' said he; and I could see that his lip quivered, and the hand he had extended trembled. 'Why do you greet me thus coldly?'

"'Let your own heart answer the question, Mr. Elmore. To that and to your own words I refer you for reasons why we must henceforth be strangers.'

"'You speak enigmas to-night, my dear Mary. My heart tells me no tale that can enable me to comprehend this unlooked-for change in you. It will take more than your simple assertion that we are strangers, to render us such; and he again attempted to take my hand.

"I drew back more haughtily than before, and words that I cannot now repeat burst from my lips. I can only tell you that they were harsh, stinging words--words fraught with contempt and bitterness--words that a proud spirit like Elmore's could not brook.

"He sought no farther explanation. 'Be it as you will,' he said, and his manner was as stern as my own; 'I have asked you to account for this change, and you refuse compliance, couching that refusal in terms that I can hear twice from no one, not even from yourself. We meet no more; but remember, Mary Atherton, the words you have this day uttered will ring in your ear until it is closed to all earthly sounds. You have given heed to some idle tale of calumny, and have wantonly flung away a heart that was filled but with your image--a heart that had centred upon you its every dream and wish for the far future--that lived but in the hope of one day calling you its own--and that looked forward to that period as to the commencement of a better and a happier existence. The hour will come when you will feel that this is true, and then will you bewail the step you have now taken!'--and without one farewell look he rushed from the room.

"This prophecy was fulfilled almost before the echo of his departing footsteps had died away. I felt that I was labouring under some strange delusion, and bursting into tears, I wept long and bitterly. I would have given worlds to recall him; but his fleet steed was bearing him from me, as on the wings of the wind. Yet, hope whispered: 'We shall surely meet again. My harsh words angered him; but he has loved me so long and so fondly, that he will not resign me thus easily. All will yet be explained.'

"But day after day passed and he came not; and my heart was as if an iron hand was resting upon it, pressing it downward to the very earth. The excitement of passion had died away, and I could now see how greatly I had erred, in not telling him frankly the tale that had reached my ears, and thus giving him an opportunity to exculpate himself from the charge. Alas! for pride and anger, how often does the shadow of one unguarded moment darken our life-paths for ever!

"Two weeks had elapsed; and one night, after vain attempts to sleep, I rose from my couch and threw open the lattice. The glare of daylight was wanting; but the moon poured forth such a flood of radiance that the minutest object was distinctly visible. All heaven and earth were still; the very leaves upon the trees hung motionless as those painted upon canvass. The perfect silence was becoming painfully oppressive, when a low sound, like distant footsteps, fell upon my ear. Nearer and still nearer it came, and I could distinguish a faint murmur, as of half-suppressed voices. Then a group of men approached. They walked slowly and heavily, and as they drew near I perceived that they bore a dark object. Soon, by their reverential mien, and by the unyielding, uneven nature of their burden, the stiff outlines of which were discernible beneath the mantle thrown over it, I knew they were bearing the dead.

"They were passing directly beneath my window, when a sudden movement of the bearers disarranged the pall, and the moonbeams fell clear and soft upon the uncovered features. I leaned forward, and--oh, God! it was the face of Walter Elmore!

"With a shriek that rang out fearfully upon the night-air, I rushed forth, and threw myself upon the motionless form. The men paused in astonishment; but I heeded them not; I lifted the wet, dark locks from his forehead: more than living beauty rested upon it; but it was cold, icy cold,--so cold that the touch chilled my very life-blood. I placed my hand upon his heart: but it beat no longer. I kissed his pale lips again and again, and wildly called him by name, and prayed that he would speak to me once, _only once_ more; but he answered not. They thought I was mad, and attempted to raise me, and bear the body on; but I clung to it with a frenzied clasp, exclaiming: 'You shall not separate us,--he is mine,--he is mine!' Then, suddenly, in thunder tones, a voice from the depths of my own spirit sounded in my ears: 'He is not yours: your own hand severed the ties that bound you. What dost thou here?' and I fell senseless to the ground.

"When I next awoke to consciousness, the snow had rested for many weeks upon the grave of Walter Elmore.

"I cannot dwell longer upon this theme. Years have fled since that name has passed my lips, until this evening; but my brain whirls, even now, when I recall the agony of that moment. Elmore had been crossing a narrow bridge, when his foot slipped, and he was precipitated into the water beneath. The current was strong; and his body was found, by some travellers, washed on shore some distance below.

"I learned, before many months had passed, that the tale to which I had given credence was an entire fabrication, having its origin solely in jealousy and malice. He had never swerved from his fidelity, even for one moment; but I,--oh! would to God that my spirit might but for once hold communion with his, that I might humble myself before him, and implore forgiveness for the injustice and coldness of our last interview!

"Little more remains to be told. Shortly after, my father sank to his rest; and the death of a distant relative placed me in possession of a small annuity, which enabled me to purchase this cottage. Here I shall probably live until called to rejoin my loved ones in a happier clime."

Aunt Mary's story was ended. My heart was too full for utterance, and silently I pressed my lips upon her pale forehead, and wended my way homewards.

The next morning I left Elmwood. When I again revisited my early home, a plain slab of marble in the churchyard bore the name of Mary Atherton.

SUNSET ON THE RIVER DELAWARE. A SONNET, TO "SIBYL."

BY J. I. PEASE.

A day of storms!--But, at its latest close,
_Beyond_ the cloud, comes forth the glowing sun,
Kissing the waves to dimples, one by one,
O'er which our homeward bark serenely goes.
The blue expanse with tremulous lustre glows,
As the warm hues of evening fade to dun;
And the still twilight hour comes softly down,
Like blessed, eyelids, for the day's repose.
And thus _our_ day!--The heavy clouds rolled past,
The dark eclipse of doubt and fear is o'er;
The tides of life flow calmly as before,
And love's pure tranquil moon shines clear at last.
Oh, may this hour of beauty and of rest
Bring peace undreaming to thy troubled breast.

FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY.

BY S. A. H.

I saw a noble bark upon the angry main--
The foamy billows pressed upon her track;
Now high, now low, I saw her timbers strain,
As forth she bounded o'er the waters black.
But ever, as a deeper plunge she gave,
Phosphoric brightness gleamed along the wave:
And thus, I said, wide o'er Life's stormy sea,
Glances the light of Faith, so pure and free.

I marked a threatening cloud hang o'er the western sky,
And throw its blackness o'er the landscape fair,
Whence lightnings flashed, whence pealed the thunder high,
And wide re-echoed through the trembling air.
The sun broke forth, and all its dark array
Was gilded with the hues of parting day:
And thus, I said, can Hope's bright rays illume,
And richly paint the darkest days of gloom.

I saw, at twilight eve, a snowy flower--
It closed its leaves and drooped its tender bud;
Cold came the dew, and blightingly the shower
Swept o'er the plant in swift destructive flood.
But, bending o'er its tender charge its leaves,[20]
Bows the strong branch, and needed shelter gives:
And thus, I said, does Charity descend,
And proves to every drooping one a friend.

[Footnote 20: The tamarind plant, which closes its leaves over its young fruit and flowers.]

CASTLE-BUILDING.

BY JAMES T. MITCHELL.

At twilight, when the deepening shades
Of humid night are closing fast,
When o'er bright fields and green arcades
The dazzling beams of gold are cast,
Another day its weary round
Of mingled joys and pains has run,
And clouds, with golden fringes bound,
In beauty veil the setting sun,--

A silence, pleasing, calm, profound,
Falls soothing on the raptured brain;
The hum of busy life is drowned,
On crowded street and lonely plain;
The soul, in dreamy reveries lost,
To shadowy realms far distant roves,
In stormy waves of ether tost,
Then wandering wild in heavenly groves.

And cloud-built castles, towering high,
O'er gorgeous scenes that fancy rears,
Where laughing orbs illume the sky,
Seem mansions for our future years;
And, while the spirit gazing stands,
Enwrapt with pleasure at the scenes
Which fill Imagination's lands
With palaces for fairy queens,

The view is changing--all is gone--
The castles, fading slow away,
As misty shapes at early dawn,
Vanish before the coming day;
And storm-clouds now are lowering round;
Wild demon shapes are flitting by;
Fierce flames are rising from the ground,
And lurid lightnings cleave the sky.

Bleak snow-capped mountains o'er us frown,
While, gray and grim, through darkened air,
Towers and turrets, looking down
From rocky heights o'erhanging there,
Seem prisons for the wandering brain,
Within whose deep and caverned walls
'Tis doomed for ever to remain,
'Mid shrieks as from demoniac halls.

But pyramids above these rise,
Whose summits, gleaming gaily bright,
Inspire with hope the fainting eyes,
As bathed they stand in golden light,
Lifting their peaks high o'er the dark,
Like shining spots, that on the breast
Of darkened Luna, seem to mark
Some towering Etna's blazing crest.

Perched on these lofty granite piles,
Rise adamantine domes of power,
Secure from treachery, force, or wiles,
Reared in Ambition's happy hour,
When, having left the storm behind,
Of raging battles, fears, and hates,
He spurns their threats as empty wind,
Himself the guardian of the gates.

Here in these grand, but lonely halls,--
Unmingling with the crowd below,
And all unharmed by what befalls
Poor wanderers in this world of woe,--
Ambition, well-directed, dwells,
While songs of sorrow, care, and grief,
Give place to martial music's swells,
Which proudly hail the victor chief.

Yet not alone--without a friend
To share his toil-bought honours great,
And by congenial spirit lend
New splendour to his regal state--
Celestial Hope dwells ever near,
And Happiness, her sister gay;
And thus they live, while year on year
With rapid pinions rolls away.

But gazing from these lofty walls,
A landscape rises bright and fair,
Where happy light serenely falls
On scenes of gorgeous beauty there.
Here crystal founts, 'mid orient flowers,
Which radiant shine in varied hues,
Flow joyous through an Eden's bowers,
Where perfume loads the falling dews;

While here and there, these laughing streams,
Dimpling and eddying ever gay,
Rippling o'er golden sand, that gleams
Like the Golcondian diamond's ray,
Leap headlong down a rocky dell,
And o'er the heaven's ethereal azure
Cast many a rainbow's glittering spell,
That chains the heart in silent pleasure.

And 'neath the heaven's o'erarching bow,
Bloom laurels proud, and violets low,
In fragrance sweet, and beauty rare,
With graceful rose, and lily fair;
The mirthful grape, and crocus glad,
Yet here and there, geranium sad,
With hawthorn, and ambrosia kind,
And 'mongst them all is ivy twined.

Amid these blooming spirit-lands,
Mid chaplets wreathed by Love's own hands,
The glowing flowers of Love are found
With which his shining locks are crowned;
He sings a song, through all the day long,
Of joy, and of gladness, and glee,
And he sits so light, on his throne so bright,
Oh ever a conquering king is he!

But when the sunset's golden dyes
Have faded away from the western skies;
And these fairy gardens are seen by night.
Over their moonlit waters bright,
On which, as they're merrily flowing and dancing,
The light of the stars is twinkling and glancing,
There's a charm in that silent midnight hour,
They only can tell who have felt its power.

There's a mystic spell in its silence sweet,
And a magic thrill through all who meet,
Where kindred thoughts together stray,
Whispering beneath pale Luna's ray;
Then is the time for poet's song,
When his voice on the zephyr is borne along,
And slumbering echo, like fairy fay,
Murmurs the words of his wakening lay.

But the rosy beams of the coming morn
Tell us how fast the night has worn,
How far and free the soul has strayed,
Wandering 'mong scenes in fancy laid;
And the heathcock's note, or the matin bell,
As the morning breeze brings its pealing swell,
Recalls the soul from its musings there,
To find its "Castles"--built in air.

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

WENONA'S LEAP. LAKE PEPIN, MISS. RIVER.]

THE LOVER'S LEAP: OR, WENONA'S ROCK.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

Love, which "rules the court, the camp, the grove," is not without a share of influence in the wigwam.

It is true that in a polished and refined society, woman is more likely to receive a just appreciation, than where the intellect of man is like the one talent rolled in a napkin, useless, because neglected and unimproved. In an enlightened country, woman is not considered as being only created to perform the household duties of a wife and mother. She is a companion, in the highest sense of the word. Her aim, like his, may be towards the great purposes of life.

Not unmindful of her first duties, those which lie in her province alone, she can go on towards that exalted state of perfection of which the soul is capable, though not to be attained here. Religion, that teaches her "that the price of a virtuous woman is far above rubies," also commends her that "she openeth her mouth with wisdom." We find her in the sacred history not only the friend, the mother, and the wife, but the poet, the heroine, the prophetess, and even the judge. But among Indian nations we find her position more than equivocal. Her influence is undoubted in the domestic relations, but she is still a slave. She was born to labour--what merit then in her strongest efforts! She is an inferior--how then can she hope for justice?

Among the Sioux, the men appear indeed to be a superior class of beings. They are noble-looking, while the women are often repelling in appearance. The difficulties with which they must contend in the harsh climate of their country; their poverty increasing year after year; their frequent and long fastings: these all make the men more hardy, more capable of a continued struggle, but they have a different effect upon the women. They are compelled to remain in the lodge; the care of their children obliges them to forego the excitement of seeking for food, and thus sickness and even death is often brought upon them that could otherwise have been avoided. They are often found buried in the snow in winter, prevented by sickness from making such efforts as saved the lives of their husbands and brothers.

But their noble courage, where the emotions of the heart are concerned, gives them the first place in the romantic traditions of their country.

The Sioux will soon have taken a farewell look of the lands which the Great Spirit gave them in the olden time. The lodge and its occupants are vanishing away. The occasional war-whoop will soon be forgotten where it has been heard in unrecorded ages. The scenes of many a romantic tradition will be forgotten by those who succeed the valiant but doomed people, who must look upon them no more. The hunter and his wild steed depart, and the white man, the axe, the plough, and the powder-horn take their place.[21] The fairy-rings[22] on the prairie must be trodden down. Spirits will no more assemble where are heard the noise and excitement of advancing civilization. The same sun gilds the hills, the same breezes play upon the waters--but the red man must go.

He must, with his heart full of patriotism and sorrow, find another site for his lodge, another country for his hunting-grounds. The wakeen-stone to which he was sacrificed is no longer his. The graves of his ancestors reproach him as he departs.

The illustration of Wenona's Rock presents one of the most striking and beautiful scenes in Indian country. Even were there no tradition connected with it, its wonderful beauty must give it interest. One must indeed feel that God made it. That huge rock with its worn and broken sides--the lake that reflects it in her placid bosom--the everlasting hills stretching out before the eye,--these would show the Creator's handiwork.

But there is an additional interest in viewing it when we recall the tale of sorrow and passion connected with it. When we recollect that _here_ a young heart throbbed its last emotions--that from that high eminence the sweet notes of woman's voice pealed forth their last music. That _here_ her arms were raised to heaven, appealing for that justice which earth had denied her.

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

MARRIAGE CUSTOM OF THE INDIANS.]

But it is not only on Wenona's Rock that the devotion of an Indian woman's love is recorded. Go among them and hear the traditions of each band; how many have loved and died. Learn of the sacrifices that only woman can make--of the devotion that only woman can feel--of the sorrows that only woman can endure.

You may see one, who, though past her youth, still attracts you by the full and expressive glances of her dark and brilliant eyes. Her hair (a marvel among Indians), waves along her forehead--and when damp from heat or bathing, divides itself into locks, that would with any pains be formed into ringlets. Her smile lights up her countenance, for her white teeth shine, and her mouth, though large, is expressive. She will not open her heart to a stranger, but to one she loves, she told all.

She had seen but fourteen summers when she left her mother to go to her husband's lodge. She loved to dwell upon that time, for no bride ever boasted greater adornment, and her marriage was celebrated according to the old and venerated customs.[23]

She was a whole morning preparing herself, for her mother loved her, and was proud of her. She had obtained from the traders gay beads of every colour, and brooches in numbers, too.

Her father was a favourite of the traders. He carried them so many beautiful furs--for he was a great hunter--that they gave him trinkets for her in abundance. They gave him, besides, fire-water; and then she and her mother used to leave the wigwam and hide, for fear he would kill her.

When she was ready to go to her husband's lodge, her father and two of her brothers attended her. Her cousin, Whistling Wind, came to meet her, and, taking her upon his back, carried her in and placed her by her husband's side.

She was very happy at first, for her husband loved her; but many moons passed away, and she had no child.

Her husband reproached her, and she could only weep--and no infant's voice was heard in their lodge.

At last her husband brought home another wife, and she was forgotten. Soon she watched him as he carved the thunder-bird on his son's cradle; and the second wife laughed at her, because she could not be a happy mother like herself.

He has beaten her sometimes--for he drinks fire-water too.

She might return to her mother, for her family is a powerful one, but she cannot leave her husband. She cannot forget the love of her early youth. She stays by him, for he is often sick, and she can take better care of him than his other wife, who has many young children.

Wherever is man, with his proud, exacting spirit, there is woman, with her devoted and enduring love. There are many instances of heroic affection, not recorded in the traditionary annals of the Sioux; but Wenona's Rock will stand, as long as the world lasts, a monument in memory of woman's love.

[Footnote 21: The Seal of Minesota, adopted in 1850, represents an Indian warrior departing on his steed: while a husbandman is in the foreground, surrounded by the implements of civilization,--the plough, axe, and rifle. The scene is located at Anthony's Falls.]

[Footnote 22: On the prairies we frequently observe what the Sioux call Fairy-rings. These are circles, occasioned by the grass growing in this form, higher and of a darker colour than that around it. Medicine-Bottle, an inferior chief, living now about twenty miles from Fort Snelling, says that "they are the paths in which their ancestors danced their war-dances;" the Indians at Lac qui Parle say the same thing. In confirmation of this opinion, it may be stated, that these circles of dark grass vary about as much from true circles as do the paths in which the Sioux dance at the present time. Chequered Cloud, a medicine-woman, much esteemed among the Sioux, says "that these circles were made, in the first instance, by one of their gods, Unk tomi sapa tonka, the large black spider, for the warriors to dance in." I will observe that Dr. Williamson, a missionary among the Sioux, requested from the two Indians mentioned their opinion on this subject, telling them I had asked it. Dr. Williamson gives his own opinion, or rather observation, thus:--"It seems to me, from the appearance of these circles, that they enlarge every year: and I have thought it probable that they originated from the death of some large animal, or other like cause, destroying the common grass of the prairie and enriching the ground, thus starting grass of another kind, or weeds which grow rankly in this manner, and overshadowing, and to some extent destroying the surrounding grass, the next year taking possession of the ground from which the common grass has been destroyed, &c."

"On mentioning this and your letter to Mr. G. H. Pond," Dr. W. continues, "he said, Lieut. Mather, the geologist, who visited this country (Minesota) with Featherstonhaugh, many years ago, had advanced the same opinion. In confirmation of it, I would observe, that in the large prairies up the St. Peter's River, I have often seen buffalo bones in these circles." Mr. Pond, the Doctor adds, did not think these circles originated in this way: saying, some supposed they were caused by a mineral in the soil, and that he had observed, that when cattle came on or near these circles, they always eat the dark grass in the ring close to the ground, neglecting or passing over that growing elsewhere.]

[Footnote 23: The marriage custom of the Sioux is given in "Dacota, or Legends of the Sioux." The ancient form, as represented in the illustration, is still venerated, and frequently, though not always celebrated.]

THE INDIAN MOTHER, AND THE SONG OF THE WIND.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

Softly the Indian mother[24] sings--
"Woman's heart is strong,
When she works for those she loves,
Through the summer's day so long.
Hark! to the wind's wild voice, my babe--
What may its story be,
Stirring thy cradle-bed, securely laid
In the arms of the forest tree?"

"We have travelled afar, but we come again;
We have passed o'er the couch of weakness and pain;
We have seen the gifted from earth depart;
We have fanned the brow of the broken heart;
We have fled from the shrieks of the mighty in death,
From the battle's rage and the victor's breath;
We have been at the grave--at the infant's birth;
We know all the cares of the children of earth.

"Our wail is heard o'er the mighty deep,
In whose breast the loved and lost ones sleep,
When, sweeping in rage, the hurricane blast
Tosses to heaven the waters vast.
When we bear o'er the foaming and dashing main
The voices that ne'er will be heard again;
Yet we come and go at His will, who said
To the sea 'Be still!' and its waves obeyed.

"The air was still as we stayed our breath,
While the mother wept o'er her young child's death--
A fatherless child; 'twas peacefully laid,
So placid and calm, 'neath the curtain's shade.
Yet, pressing the clay to her throbbing breast,
'Oh! when,' she cried, 'will I be at rest?'
We sang for the child a requiem low,
And the mother's to sing on our way we go.

"But why should we chaunt of sorrow and gloom,
Of night and the tempest, of tears and the tomb?
Those who are parted shall meet again--
The sea yield her victims, the earth her slain;
Our mission we haste o'er ocean to bear;
We tell of his glory whose servants we are.
We quell with our tidings the idol's dark power,
That the cries of its victims be heard never more.

"We raise from the earth the spirit crushed;
At the sight of the cross its murmurs are hushed.
Our voice is heard, and the wandering son
In spirit turns to his long-left home.
He remembers his father's voice in prayer,
And he kneels by the side of his mother there;
And he cries, while his steps are homeward trod,
'Oh! be thou mine, my father's God!'

"Alike is the charge and the mission given
To the faithful heart and the winds of heaven,
To tell how the Saviour came to earth,
How poor he was from the hour of his birth:
His own griefs unheeded, for others he sighed;
Of the life that he lived, of the death that he died.
To earth's farthest shore these tidings we bear--
All glory to Him whose servants we are."

Again the Indian mother sings--
"Woman's heart is strong,
When she works for those she loves,
Through the summer's day so long.
I would know what the wild winds said, my babe--
What could their story be,
Stirring thy cradle-bed, securely laid
In the arms of the forest tree?"

[Footnote 24: Indian women take great interest in listening to instruction connected with religious subjects. They often deplore the difference in their position from that of the white woman, desiring for themselves and their children the thousand comforts and advantages they observe the wives and children of the white man possess. Only can they ever hope to enjoy them when their nation becomes a Christian one.]

THE WOOD SPIRITS AND THE MAIDEN.

BY MRS. MARY EASTMAN.

Those who have lived among the Indians are accustomed to their faith
in the protecting power of the Spirits of Nature. Especially powerful
is the god of the woods and forests.

Day with its gorgeous light passes away,
Shadows of coming night darken the way.
Who is the wanderer
With the long braided hair?
'Mid the tall evergreens,
She like a fairy seems;
Know ye the maiden young,
Wood Spirits, say?

Know we the maiden young--mark well her form,
Like the tall pine tree, when rages the storm.
How like the dark bird's wing
Glistens her braided hair.
When watching o'er her birth,
Sang we a song of earth,
We were her guardians made,
She was our child.

Soon o'er her body cold, chaunt we her funeral hymn,
Wild branches, torn and old, timing the requiem.
Why does she wander here,
With the long braided hair?
Why is the maiden pale--
Why does her breathing fail?
Now, by the moonbeams fair,
See her dimmed eye.

She loved as maiden loves, she wept as woman weeps.
Soon will her restless frame sleep where her lover sleeps.
Then to our far-off groves
Will we her spirit hear.
When heaves her parting sigh,
When closed her lustrous eye,
We will her guardians be,--
She is our child.

ALICE HILL.

BY MRS. M. E. W. ALEXANDER.

Fast by a brook, whose murmuring streams
Reflected heaven in angel dreams,
Embosomed in a quiet wood,
An old and storm-rent school-house stood.
All brown with age and worn by rains,
Rude winter shook the shattered panes,
That shivered in their casements light,
Like goblins' teeth on windy night.
But when the sun shone down the hill,
On smiling field and gushing rill,
And by the school-house danced the brook,
Through hidden course or leafy nook,
On shattered panes in casement light
Its summer rays streamed clear and bright.
Of pleasant ways and knowledge fair,
Blithe Alice Hill reigned mistress there,--
Nor birchen rod nor oaken rule
In terror held this woodland school;
Love awed the spirits bold and wild,
Love won the most rebellious child,--
O, Alice Hill! just sweet sixteen,
Of pleasant ways and courteous mien,
With glowing cheeks and eyes of blue,
And glossy hair of golden hue,
O God! that I should ever live,
Such sad account of thee to give!

In Moreland vale brown Autumn's tilth,
Impatient waits the reaper's scythe:
Where, scattered with a bounteous hand,
Luxuriant harvests thickly stand.
The sunlight bathes the waving grain,
That sweetly smiles to sun again;
The landscape lies in green and gold,
And purple clouds in ether rolled,
Or gentle blue now smile above
This earthly scene of Eden love.

With dashing wheels and flying steed,
Nor whip nor spur to urge their speed,
To view his land Fitch Moreland came,
The eldest of his honoured name,
And heir of all, the green-crowned wood,
In which the low-roofed school-house stood,
The wide-spread fields, the meadows broad,
The fruitful land and grassy sward,
And near embraced with roses wild
The old brown house that through them smiled,
Where Alice Hill had passed her days
Unnoticed by a flatterer's gaze;
And Rudolph Hill, a farmer skilled,
The fields had reaped, the lands had tilled,
Fitch Moreland's tenant, prompt to pay
His rent and taxes gathering day.

Just free from school, with shout and song,
Fitch Moreland met a joyous throng,
And joined their sports, with heart as gay,
As boyhood had not passed away;
Till seated in a fairy glade,
Beneath an elm tree's grateful shade,
Sweet Alice Hill fell on his sight,
With glowing cheeks and eyes of light:
Around her neck, her hair unbound,
In floating tresses swept the ground,
And pupils kneeling at her side,
Wild flowers in graceful garlands tied,
A coronal as fresh and gay
As ever crowned "the Queen of May."

With courteous words and city mien,
Fitch Moreland joined the rustic scene.
Quick beat the heart of Alice Hill,
Her pulses woke a music thrill:
Her glowing cheek with crimson flushed,
And in her heart tumultuous gushed
A spring of thought, so sweet and rare,
It might have claimed the name of air,
Its unseen visions came so bright,
To shed on life a holier light.
O ye who wear love's gentle spell,
And bless the bondage, can ye tell
Blithe Alice Hill if this was Love,--
That like a homeless, wandering dove,
Beat at her fluttering heart, and sought
An altar for his blissful thought?

No longer now, like placid streams,
Life passes by in quiet dreams;
But hurried, feverish pulses shake
The beating heart they may not break,--
Hope, fear, desire, and all that stored
The spring of life, hung on his word:
There was no life without his smile,
Nor dreamed she that a heart of guile
Beat in so fair and smooth a shrine,
That other eyes for him might shine,
And softer voices breathe his name!
O, Alice Hill, love's vestal flame
Hath many a false, misguiding light,
To cheat young hearts, with promise bright.
And strew life's shores with dearer wrecks
Than perish from our wave-washed decks.

The fowler laid a cunning snare:
The timid bird was fluttering there,
And paused on half-suspended wing,
To hear the subtle charmer sing;
Close to the brink, with dizzy sense,
She hung upon his eloquence;
Lured by the magic of his eye,
She quite forgot her power to fly,
Till reeling, powerless with the spell,
She lost her fragile hold and fell.

The fowler saw his lovely spoil
Entangled in the dazzling toil,
A few frail threads of woven gauze,
But deadly as the lion's jaws.
Not till her golden wings were shorn,
The timid bird escaped forlorn--
To soar with flocks of grosser mould,
An alien from the heavenly fold,

The timid bird, a human heart--
The snare, a smooth seducer's art--
How can my pitying pen rehearse
The burden of its mournful verse,
Since he who triumphed in his power
To crush so meek and low a flower,
Contemptuous spurned it from his path,
To die a lone neglected death,
And to the winds his bauble tost--
Left Alice Hill, betrayed and lost.
And, Alice Hill, his haughty name
Will never hide thy maiden shame--
And though he swear it on his life,
Thou'lt never be Fitch Moreland's wife!

"Farewell, my own, my waiting bride!
Though I am wandering from thy side,
And from these favourite haunts afar,
I see thine eyes in every star,
I hear thy voice in every breeze,
That floats through summer's radiant trees;
And thou shalt wear our bridal ring,
And wear it as a holy thing,
Till, to the sacred altar led,
It be the seal by which we wed."

Years rolled down Time's resistless tides
Where Time, Eternity divides;
Fitch Moreland, high in hall and state,
Cared not that by the elm tree sate
Poor Alice Hill, to reason lost,
Like oarless bark on ocean tost;
Not wildly crazed to tear her hair,
But mute and sad, as if despair
Had worn away life's tuneful strings,
And sealed to Thought its gushing springs.
But on that ring mute Alice Hill
For ever looks, as if a thrill
Of reason shot across her brain,
And darted gleams of mental pain.

Bold Winter lay on Moreland Vale.
His bearded crown of ice and hail,
And columns wreathed in feathery snow,
How childhood dreams of glory show.
Fast by these piles, on reeking steed,
A post-boy checked his furious speed,
And whispered to a gaping wight,
"Fitch Moreland takes a wife to-night."
Mute Alice Hill the echo caught,--
With stealthy steps the town she sought,
That three leagues off in beauty lay
Along Wamphassock's lovely bay--
With hair arranged and graceful dress,
None would have dreamed such loveliness
Concealed a heart to reason lost,
Like oarless bark on ocean tost.

Light, glorious light, streamed clear and wide,
Through the proud dome of Moreland's bride,
And mirth and music chid the hours
Lost in a maze of thornless flowers.
His eye erect in manly pride,
Fitch Moreland stood beside his bride,
Nor dreamed he that his Eden bough
Hung on a false and perjured vow.
The holy priest in scarf and bands
With holy words had joined their hands,
And as to make more strong an oath,
When each had pledged their plighted troth,
A gleaming ring in diamonds set,
That hid a lock of glossy jet,
The fragile finger graceful pressed,
As sunlight lies on ocean's crest.

A maddened brain, a spirit strong,
Has pressed aside that startled throng.
With glaring eyes and purple cheeks,
Fitch Moreland's side a woman seeks,
While o'er her half-ethereal frame
The altar sheds its holy flame.
The grasp on Moreland's arm was light,
But those wild eyes, so wildly bright,
His craven soul with terror fill,
For now he knows crazed Alice Hill.
A ring she from her finger drew,
And held it forth to Moreland's view,
And murmured low, in tones that thrilled
His thickly throbbing pulse, and stilled
The awe-struck guests, as if a breath
Had touched them from the wing of death:
"Four times twelve months have quickly fled--
This be the seal by which we wed,
And in this light empyreal bow,
To consecrate, our bridal vow!
I sit beneath the elm alone
Since thou, my own, my love, art gone.
Where hast thou trifled on the way,
Like truant-boy forbid to stay?
But hush, my heart, thou needst not chide:
Fitch Moreland claims his waiting bride!
My beating heart, what raptures thrill,
Tumultuous heart, be still! be still!"

A sturdy arm grasped Alice Hill,
Who struggling fiercely, shrieking shrill,
Out from the door was rudely cast,
Though storms were out and tide and blast.
There shivering on the pavement cold
Sat Alice Hill, with spirit bold,
Roused by a blow, revenge to claim
For reason lost and peace and name.
The holy priest completes his task,
And bride and groom his blessing ask.