Chapter VII: Part 7

In her _processes_ too, Nature is patient and long-waiting. She doth not say to the seed just planted in the earth, spring up and bear fruit forthwith, or you shall be cast out, but she waiteth for the unfolding of the tender germ, and the striking of the new-shooting roots; and hath long patience, and with slowliest care, and a mother's enduring love, she bringeth forth to light the first green leaf. Then she calleth for the sun to shine, and the dews to descend upon the young plant, and many days doth she wait for the ripe fruit.

But man, impatient man would be wise in a day. He waits not for the holy and mysterious processes of nature, he leaves not the wonderful powers within him to unfold in silence and secrecy, but must ever disturb them with his foolish meddling and impertinent haste, like some silly child, who digs up the seed he has planted an hour ago, to see if it have yet sprouted. And are there not some who deal in like fashion with other minds than their own? _Educators_ let them not be called, for never do they bring out what is within. The young mind is not to them a germ to be unfolded, an infant to be nursed into manhood, but rather a receptacle to be filled, and stuffed, and crammed as expeditiously as possible; and this, thanks to the numerous machines lately invented for the purpose, is very quick indeed.

There have been times when you seemed to make no progress in your favorite pursuit. You struggled without advancing as we sometimes do in dreams, or though you stepped up and down, it was as in a treadmill. So it seemed to you. But was it so? Nay, the process was going on within, though its visible manifestations may have ceased. If no addition was made to the superstructure, yet the foundations were deepening and widening; if the branches and leaves did not grow, yet the root strengthened itself in the earth.

But not only so--you seemed to be going backward. Even the ground slipped from under your feet, and where you had heretofore a firm standing-place, you found but a swamp. And have you never considered that Nature too sometimes works backwards? See that withered leaf which flutters in the breeze, maintaining yet an uncertain hold upon the branch which nurtured its younger growth. A fresh gust of wind loosens its hold, and it is blown in circling eddies to the earth. There it rests till the elements of decay in its bosom have finished their work, and it mixes with the dust. "What is this? Can a mother forget her child? Does Nature destroy her own productions?" Ah, look again. In that fresh-blooming flower, dyed with tints of infinite softness, behold the withered leaf. Nature was as really working to the production of that flower when she decomposed the elements of the leaf, as when she unfolded the germ, and elaborated the juices, and blended the tints of the flower itself. It was but a glorified resurrection. And your spiritual growth is going on as truly and steadily, if not as visibly and delightfully, when you cast aside the slough of some old prejudice, or painfully tear yourself from a cherished delusion as when the dawning of a new truth flashes light and joy upon your soul.

For what Coleridge has said of nations, is equally true of individuals. "The progress of the species neither is nor can be, like that of a Roman road, in a right line. It may be more justly compared to that of a river, which, both in its smaller reaches and larger turnings, is frequently forced back towards its fountains, by objects which cannot otherwise be eluded or overcome; yet with an accompanying impulse that will ensure its advancement hereafter, it is either gaining strength every hour or conquering in secret some difficulty, by a labor that contributes as effectually to further its course, as when it moves forward in an uninterrupted line."

I might go on to illustrate the application of this truth to self-knowledge, but it is one easily made, by each for himself. Its bearing upon our moral growth must not be so lightly passed over.

You have learned that you have a spirit which _may_ be, _must_ be trained for immortality and heaven. You have found too that there are difficulties in the way of this training. There is a constant under-current of selfishness ready to insinuate itself into all you do; there is contempt for your inferiors in birth or cultivation, ever offering to start up, and there is a spirit of resentment against those who have injured you ready to take fire on the least provocation. What is to be done with these? You do not forget that to Him, whose "still, small voice" can speak with authority to the spirits He has made, must be your first appeal; but neither do you forget that his help is vouchsafed to those only who help themselves. And how will you help yourself? Will you in the plenitude of your might, and the resoluteness of kindled energy, _will_ the extinction of those unruly passions? Try it; exert the volition; _will_ to stop the flowing tide of revenge in your breast, and to cause love and forgiveness to spring up in its place. Well, have you done it? But what means that glowing cheek--that flashing eye--that compressed brow? Is such the expression of _love_? Nay brother, you have mistaken the way. Not the straight path of direct volition will ever lead you to your object.

But come forth with me into the field. Here are "sweet, strange flowers," to glad thy heart with their innocent beauty, and delight thee with their fragrance; here is the broad and blessed "sky bending over" thee, and the quiet lake at thy feet.

"The air is spread with beauty; and the sky
Is musical with sounds that rise and die,
Till scarce the ear can catch them; then they swell,
Then send from far a low, sweet, sad farewell."

And who art thou that bringest discord and rough, angry passions into a scene like this? Ah, thou bringest not discord, it has stolen from thy heart; thou art at peace. For it is not a poetic fiction when we are told that a wayward spirit, is subdued by nature's loveliness and _lovingness_.

"Till he can no more endure
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing,
Amidst this general dance and minstrelsy;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
His angry spirit healed and harmonized,
By the benignant touch of love and beauty."

We asked, perchance, that our hearts might be lifted above the earth, and taught to repose with a surer love, and a more child-like trustfulness on the Father of Spirits. And did we know that our prayer was answered when the light of our eyes was torn from us; when our souls were rent with bitter agony, and lay crushed and bowed beneath the stroke of _His_ hand? Yes, it was answered; we know it now, though we knew it not then. The weary bird never reposes so sweetly in its nest, as when it hath been battered by the tempest and chased by the vulture; never doth the little child rest so lovingly and rejoicingly on its mother's breast, as when it hath there found a shelter from the injuries and taunts of its rude play-fellows; and the christian never knows the full sweetness of the words, "My Father in Heaven," till he can also add, "there is none that I desire beside Thee."

FRAGMENTS OF AN ADDRESS ON MUSIC.

By Edward Payson.

Without resorting to the hyperbolical expressions of poetry, or to the dreams and fables of pagan mythology, to the wonders said to be performed by the lyre of Amphion and the harp of Orpheus,--I might place before you the prophet of Jehovah, composing his ruffled spirits by the soothing influence of music, that he might be suitably prepared to receive a message from the Lord of Hosts. I might present to your view the evil spirit, by which jealous and melancholy Saul was afflicted, flying, baffled and defeated, from the animating and harmonious tones of David's harp. I might show you the same David, the defender and avenger of his flock, the champion and bulwark of his country, the conqueror of Goliah, the greatest warrior and monarch of his age, laying down the sword and the sceptre to take up his harp, and exchanging the titles of victor and king for the more honorable title of the sweet Psalmist of Israel.--But I appear not before you as her advocate; for in that character my exertions would be superfluous. She is present to speak for herself, and assert her own claims to our notice and approbation. You have heard her voice in the performances of this evening; and those of you, whom the God of nature has favored with a capacity of feeling and understanding her eloquent language, will, I trust, acknowledge that she has pleaded her own cause with triumphant success; has given sensible demonstration, that she can speak, not only to the ear, but to the heart; and that she possesses irresistible power to soothe, delight, and fascinate the soul. Nor was it to the senses alone that she spake; but while, in harmonious sounds, she maintained her claims, and asserted her powers; in a still and small but convincing voice, she addressed herself directly to reason and conscience, proclaiming the most solemn and important truths; truths which perhaps some of you did not hear or regard, but which deserve and demand our most serious attention.--With the same irresistible evidence as if an angel had spoken from heaven, she said, There is a God--and that God is good and benevolent. For, my friends, who but God could have tuned the human voice, and given harmony to sounds? Who, but a good and benevolent God, would have given us senses capable of perceiving and enjoying this harmony? Who, but such a being, would have opened a way through the ear, for its passage to the soul? Could blind chance have produced these wonders of wisdom? or a malignant being these miracles of goodness? Could they have caused this admirable fitness between harmony of sounds, and the organs of sense by which it is perceived? No. They would have either given us no senses, or left them imperfect, or rendered every sound discordant and harsh. With the utmost propriety, therefore may Jehovah ask, Who hath made man's mouth, and planted the ear? Have not I, the Lord? With the utmost justice, also, may he demand of us, that all our musical powers and faculties should be consecrated to his service, and employed in celebrating his praises. To urge you diligently and cheerfully to perform this pleasing, reasonable, and indispensable duty, is the principal object of the speaker. Not, then, as the advocate of music, but as the ambassador of that God, whose being and benevolence, music proclaims, do I now address this assembly, entreating every individual, without delay, to adopt and practise the resolution of the royal Psalmist--_I will sing unto the Lord as long as I live; I will sing praise to my God while I have my being._ Psa. civ. 33.

In your imagination go back to the origin of the world, when, every thing was very good, and all creation harmonized together. All its parts, animate and inanimate, like the voices and instruments of a well regulated concert, helped to compose a perfect and beautiful whole; and so exquisite was the harmony thus produced, that in the whole compass of creation, not one jarring or discordant note was heard, even by the perfect ear of God himself.--The blessed angels of light began the universal chorus, "when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy."

* * * * *

Of this universal concert, man was appointed the terrestrial leader, and was furnished with natural and moral powers, admirably fitted for this blessed and glorious employment. His body, exempt from dissolution, disease, and decay, was like a perfect and well-strung instrument, which never gave forth a false or uncertain sound, but always answered, with exact precision, the wishes of his nobler part, the soul. His heart did not then belie his tongue, when he sung the praises of his Creator; but all the emotions felt by the one were expressed by the other, from the high notes of ecstatic admiration, thankfulness, and joy, down to the deep tones of the most profound veneration and humility. In a word, his heart was the throne of celestial love and harmony, and his tongue at once the organ of their will, and the sceptre of their power.

We are told, in ancient story, of a statue, formed with such wonderful art, that, whenever it was visited by the rays of the rising sun, it gave forth, in honor of that luminary, the most melodious and ravishing sounds. In like manner, man was originally so constituted, by skill divine, that, whenever he contemplated the rays of wisdom, power, and goodness, emanating from the great Sun of the moral system, the ardent emotions of his soul spontaneously burst forth in the most pure and exalted strains of adoration and praise. Such was the world, such was man, at the creation. Even in the eye of the Creator, all was good; for, wherever he turned, he saw only his own image, and heard nothing but his own praises. Love beamed from every countenance; harmony reigned in every breast, and flowed mellifluous from every tongue; and the grand chorus of praise, begun by raptured seraphs round the throne, and heard from heaven to earth, was reechoed back from earth to heaven; and this blissful sound, loud as the archangel's trump, and sweet as the melody of his golden harp, rapidly spread, and was received from world to world, and floated, in gently-undulating waves, even to the farthest bounds of creation.

To this primeval harmony, a lamentable contrast followed, when sin untuned the tongues of angels, and changed their blissful songs of praise into the groans of wretchedness, the execrations of malignity, the blasphemies of impiety, and the ravings of despair. Storms and tempests, earthquakes and convulsions, fire from above, and deluges from beneath, which destroyed the order of the natural world, proved that its baleful influence had reached our earth, and afforded a faint emblem of the jars and disorders which sin had introduced into the moral system. Man's corporeal part, that lyre of a thousand strings, tuned by the finger of God himself, destined to last as long as the soul, and to be her instrument in offering up eternal praise, was, at one blow, shattered, unstrung, and almost irreparably ruined. His soul, all whose powers and faculties, like the chords of an Æolian harp, once harmoniously vibrated to every breath of the divine Spirit, and ever returned a sympathizing sound to the tones of kindness and love from a fellow-being, now became silent, and insensible to melody, or produced only the jarring and discordant notes of envy, malice, hatred, and revenge. The mouth, filled with cursing and bitterness, was set against the heavens; the tongue was inflamed with the fire of hell. Every voice, instead of uniting in the song of "Glory to God in the highest," was now at variance with the voices around it, and, in barbarous and dissonant strains, sung praise to itself, or was employed in muttering sullen murmurs against the Most High--in venting slanders against fellow-creatures--in celebrating and deifying some worthless idol, or in singing the triumphs of intemperance, dissipation, and excess. The noise of violence and cruelty was heard mingled with the boasting of the oppressor, and the cry of the oppressed, and the complaints of the wretched; while the shouts of embattled hosts, the crash of arms, the brazen clangor of trumpets, the shrieks of the wounded, the groans of the dying, and all the horrid din of war, together with the wailings of those whom it had rendered widows and orphans, overwhelmed and drowned every sound of benevolence, praise and love. Such is the jargon which sin has introduced--such the discord which, from every quarter of our globe, has long ascended up into the ears of the Lord of hosts.

THE BLUSH.

By Mrs. Elizabeth Smith.

The soft warm air scarcely stirred the leaves of the vine, that clustered about the bower of Eve, as she lay with pale cheek and languid limbs, her first born daughter resting upon her breast. Adam had led his sons to the field, that their sports might not disturb the repose of our first mother, and the low murmur of the tiny cascade, the monotonous hum of insects, and happy twitter of unfledged birds, all wooed her to slumber; yet she slept not. She looked with a mother's deep unutterable love upon the face of her babe, yet tears were in her eye, and anxiety upon her brow. Herself the last, the perfection of the Creator's workmanship, she still marvelled at the surprising beauty of her daughter. She looked into its dark liquid eye, and drank deep from the fountain of maternal love. She pressed its small foot and hand to her lips, hugged it to her full heart, and felt again the bitterness of transgression. She thought of Paradise, whence she had expelled her children. She thought of generations to come, who might curse her for their misery. She thought of the sweet beauty of her child on whom she had entailed sorrow, suffering and temptation. She felt it murmuring at the fountain of life while it stretched its little hand to her lips. She turned aside the thick leaves of the grape vine, and looked out upon the still blue sky, over which, scarcely moved the white thin clouds. "My daughter," she faintly articulated, "thou knowest not the evil I have done thee. Let these bitter tears attest my penitence. Let me teach thee so to live, that thou mayst hereafter obtain in another world the Paradise thou hast lost in this--lost by thy mother's guilt. O, my daughter, would that I alone might suffer, that the whole wrath of my offended Creator might fall on my head and thou, and such as thou, might escape." The tears, the penitence of Eve prevailed; a Heavenly messenger was despatched to console her, to lift her thoughts to better hopes and less gloomy anticipations.--Since the sin of our first parents, and their banishment from Paradise, these angel visits had been "few and far between," and our first mother hailed his approach with awe and pleasure. "Eve," kindly spake the divine visitant, "thy sorrow and thy penitence are all known to thy Creator, and though thy fault was great, he yet careth for thee. I am sent to comfort thee. As thou didst disobey the commands of God, death has been brought, indeed, upon thy posterity, but thy children may not curse thee. Thy daughters shall imitate thy penitence, and so secure the favor of Heaven. To each one shall be given a spirit, capable of resisting temptation, and assimilating to that holiness from which thou hast departed. Though sin and death have entered the world by thy means, thy children will still have only their own sins to answer for, and may not justly reproach thee for their errors." "True, Lord," responded Eve, "but the altered sky, the hard earth that scarcely yields its treasures to the labor of Adam, and the changed natures of the animals that once meekly and kindly sported together, all tell of my disobedience, and my daughter will turn her eyes upon me when suffering and trial come, and that look will reproach me as the cause. I am told that our children shall equal in number the leaves of the green wood, and the earth shall hereafter be peopled with beings like ourselves. I shrink to think on the mass of sorrow I have brought upon my daughters."

She looked fondly on her babe, and timidly raised it towards the beneficent being who paused at her bower. "When men shall become numerous, and there shall be many beings like these, fair and frail, may not their beauty--" She paused and looked anxiously up. "Speak, Eve," said the messenger, "thy request shall be granted. I am sent to bestow upon thee whatever thou shalt ask, for this thy first born daughter." "I scarcely know," resumed Eve, thus encouraged, "but I would ask for this first daughter of an erring mother, _something_, to warn her of even the approach of sin, something, that will whisper caution, and speak of innocence and purity. Something, Lord, that will remind us of Paradise." "Hast thou not all that, Eve, in the voice within, the voice of conscience?" Eve dropped her head upon her bosom. "But that monitor may be disregarded, my daughters may, like their unhappy parent, stifle its voice and heedlessly neglect its warnings. I would have something, that when flattery would mislead, beauty bewilder, or passion lead astray, would outwardly as it were bid them take heed, warn them to shrink from the very trail of the serpent whose insidious poison may corrupt and destroy. Hast thou nothing that will be to the innocent, the virtuous, like a second conscience, to cause them to shrink even from the _appearance_ of evil?" The angel smiled, and answered our mother with kindness, and a look of heavenly satisfaction. "Most wisely hast thou petitioned, O Eve. Thou hast asked blessings for thy posterity, not for thyself. Thy daughters shall bless thee for the gift thy prayer has obtained." The spirit departed. The gift he bestowed may be seen on the face of the maiden when she shrinks from the too admiring gaze, when her ear is listening to the tale of love, or flattery, when in the solitude of her own thoughts she starts at her own imaginings, when she shrinks even from her own reflected loveliness in the secrecy of home; or abroad, trembles at the intrusive touch, or familiar language, of him who _should be_ her guide, her protector from evil. That gift was the _blush_.

THE WIDOWED BRIDE.

By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.

The Morn awoke in Hindostan,
And blushing, left the couch of Night,
While soon her rosy smiles began,
To flood the dewy earth with light.
While yet the sultry day was young,
Came forth a happy bridal band,
With sunny smiles and English tongue,
Which spoke them of a distant land;
They gathered round an altar-stone,
Erected to the one Most High,
Standing in solitude alone,
Mid signs of dark idolatry.
Then two came slowly from the crowd;
_He_ with a bearing bold and proud,
A haughty smile and flashing eye,
Darkling with love's intensity;
While she, the high-born English bride,
Drew closer to that one dear side;
Her eyelids drooped, her cheek grew pale
As snow, beneath the bridal veil,
As if the weight of her own bliss
Were all too much of happiness,
To thrill her heart and light her eye
Beneath another's scrutiny.
On crimson cushions dropped with gold
The youthful pair together bow;
Before that priest in surplice-fold
They clasp their trembling fingers now;
A prayer is heard--the oath is said--
That gentle creature lifts her head--
A voice has thrilled into her heart,
Like music breathed to it apart,--
To lie there an abiding spell,
To haunt forever memory's cell--
To mingle with her latest breath
And light the very wing of death.
Her vow was uttered timidly--
With half a murmur, half a sigh;
Yet the low faltering sound confessed
The love that brooded in her breast.

The golden ring is on her hand--
She is pronounced a wedded bride;
Oh say, why does she lingering stand
So long that altar-stone beside?
And whence the misty tears that dim
The sunny azure of her eye?
Why leans her slender form on him?
Why does she sob so bitterly?
Well may she weep, that fair young bride;
For up the Ganges' golden tide,
Mid jungles deep, where beasts of prey
With pestilence hold deadly sway,
Where the wild waters fiercest sweep,
And serpents in their venom sleep,
Beneath each dewy leaf and flower,
That gentle bride must build her bower.

In the cool shadow of the shore,
With snowy streamers floating wide,
To the light dipping of the oar,
The budgerow swept o'er the tide;
The soft breeze ling'ring at her prow,
Where many a garland graceful hung,
In hues of purple, gold and snow,
And on the rippling waters flung
An odor sweet and delicate,
As that which all imprisoned lies,
Unknown to man as his own fate,
Within the flowers of Paradise.

Beneath an awning's silken shade,
Where the light breeze its music made,
With woven fringe and silken cord,
Sat the young bride with her brave lord.
Her hand in his was ling'ring still,
And every throb of his full heart
Met her young pulses with a thrill,
And sent the blood up with a start,
To that round cheek but late so pale
And blanched beneath the bridal veil.
A tear still trembled in her eye,
Like dews that in the violet lie;
But breaking through its lovely sheen,
The brightness of her soul was seen,
Like light within the amethyst,
Which told how truly she was blest;
Though as she met his ardent gaze,
Like the veined petal of a flower
Her eyelids drooped, as from the blaze
Of some loved, high, but dreaded power.
As bound by some subduing spell,
In beauty at his side she bowed.
The bridal robe around her fell,
Like fragments of a summer cloud;
The loosened veil had backward swept,
And deeply in her glossy hair,
Like light, the orange blossoms slept,
As if they sought new beauty there;
And pearls lay softly on her neck,
Like hailstones melting over snow,
Save when the blood, that dyed her cheek.
Diffused abroad its rosy glow,
And playing on her bosom-swell,
With every heart-pulse rose or fell.

Up went the sun; his burning rays
Broke o'er the stream like sparkling fire,
Till the broad Ganges seemed a-blaze,
With gorgeous light, save where the spire
Of some lone slender minaret,
Threw its clear shadow on the stream,
Or grove-like banian firmly set,
Broke with its boughs the fiery gleam;
Or where a white pagoda shone
Like snow-drift through the shadowy trees;
Or ancient mosque stood out alone,
Where the wild creeper sought the breeze;
Or where some dark and gloomy rock
Shot o'er the deep its ragged cliffs,
Inhabited by many a flock
Of vultures, and its yawning rifts
Alive with lizards, glowing, bright,
As if a prism's changing light
Within the gloomy depths were flung,
Where like rich jewels newly strung,
The sleeping serpent stretched its length,
And nursed its venom into strength.

Where the broad stream in shadow lay,
The bridal barque kept on her way,
While every breeze that swept them o'er,
Brought loads of incense from the shore;
Where each luxuriant jungle lay
A wilderness of tangled flowers,
And budding vines in wanton play
Fell from the trees in leafy showers,
Flinging their graceful garlands o'er
The rippling stream and reedy shore;
The lily bared its snowy breast,
Swayed its full anthers like a crest,
And softly from its pearly swell,
A shower of golden powder fell
Among the humbler flowers that lay
And blushed their fragrant lives away;
There oleanders lightly wreathed
Their blossoms in a coronal,
And the rich baubool softly breathed
A perfume from its golden bell;
There flower and shrub and spicy tree
Seemed struggling for sweet mastery;
And many a bird with gorgeous plume,
Fluttered along the flowery gloom,
Or on the spicy branches lay,
Uttering a sleepy roundelay;
While insects rushing out like gems,
Or showery sparks at random flung,
Through ripening fruit and slender stems
There to the breathing blossoms clung,
Studded the glowing boughs and threw
O'er the broad bank a brilliant hue.

On--on they went; a fanning breeze
Came sighing through the balmy trees,
And undulating o'er the stream
Rose tiny wavelets, like the gleam
Of molten gold, and crested all
With a bright trembling coronal,
Like that which Brahmins in their dream
Lavish upon the sacred stream.
Then all grew still. The sultry air
Lay stagnant in the jungles there--
The sun poured down his fervent heat;
The river lay a burnished sheet;
The floweret closed its withered bell;
From the parched leaf the insect fell;
The panting birds all tuneless clung
To the still boughs, where late they sung;
The dying blossoms felt the calm,
And the still air was thick with balm.
All things grew faint in that hot noon,
As Nature's self lay in a swoon.

And she, that gentle, loving fair,
How brooks her form the sultry air?
Most patiently--but see her now!
What fear convulses her pale brow?
And why that half-averted eye,
Watching his look so anxiously?
The scarlet burning in his cheek--
Those lips all parched and motionless?
Oh! do they fell disease bespeak?
Or only simple weariness?
One look! the dreadful certainty
Wrings from her heart a stifled cry;
And now half phrensied with despair,
She rends the blossoms from her hair,
And leaping to the vessel's side
She drenched them in the sluggish tide;
Then to the cushions where he lay,
Senseless and fevered with disease,
Panting his very life away,
She rushed, and sinking to her knees,
Raised softly up his throbbing head,
And pillowed it upon her breast--
Then on his burning forehead laid
The dripping flowers, and wildly pressed
Her pallid mouth upon his brow,
And drew him closer to her heart,
As if she thought each trembling throe
Could unto his, new life impart.
Wildly to his she laid her cheek,
And backward threw her loosened hair,
That not a glossy curl might break
From off his face the sluggish air.
The noon swept by, and there was she
Counting his pulses as they rose,
Striving with broken melody
To hush him to a short repose,
Bathing his brow and twining still
Her fingers in his burning hand,
Her heart's blood stopping with a chill
Whene'er he could not understand,
Nor answer to her gentle clasp;
But dashed that little hand away,
Or crushed it with delirious grasp,
Entreating tenderly her stay.
Father of heaven! and must he die?
She breathed in her heart's agony,
As up with every painful breath,
Came to his lips the foam of death,
And o'er his swollen forehead played,
Like serpents by the sun betrayed,
The corded veins whose purple swell,
With his hot pulses rose and fell.

Those drops upon his temple there,
The rolling eye, the gloomy hair,
The livid lip, the drooping chin,
And the death-rattle deep within,
That speechless one, so late thy pride--
There lies thy answer, widowed bride!

Half conscious of her misery,
Like something chiselled o'er a grave,
She placed her small hand anxiously
Upon the lifeless heart, and gave
One cry--but one--of such despair,
The jackall startled from his lair,
And answered back that fearful knell,
With a long, sharp and hungry yell.

A slow and solemn hour swept by,
And there, all still and motionless,
With rigid limb and stony eye,
The widow knelt in her distress.
With pitying looks the swarthy crew
Around the tearless mourner drew,
And trembling strove to force away
From her chill arms the senseless clay.
Slowly she raised her awful head;
A slight convulsion stirr'd her face;
Close to her heart she snatched the dead,
And held him in a strong embrace;
Then drawing o'er his brow her veil,
She turned her face as strangely wild,
As if a fiend had mocked her wail,
Parted her marble lips and smiled.
Twice she essayed to speak, and then
Her face drooped o'er the corpse again,
While forth from the disshevelled hair
A husky whisper stirred the air.
'Nay, bury him not here,' it said,
'I would have prayers above my dead;'
Then, one by one, the timid crew,
From the infected barge withdrew:
Helmsmen and servants, all were gone;
The wife was with her dead alone.

With no propelling arm to guide,
The barque turned slowly with the tide,
And on the heavy current swept
Its slow, funereal pathway back,
Where the expiring sunbeams slept,
Like gold along its morning track.
The day threw out its dying gleam,
Imbuing with its tints the stream,
As if the mighty river rolled
O'er beds of ruby--sands of gold.

As if some seraph just had hung
In the blue west his coronet,
The timid moon came out and flung
Her pearly smiles about--then set,
As if she feared the stars would dim
The silvery brightness of her rim;
Then in the blue and deepening skies
The stars sprang out, like glowing eyes,
And on the stream reflected lay,
Like ingots down the watery way;
And softly streamed the starry light
Down to the wet and gloomy trees,
Where fiery flies were flashing bright,
Afloat upon the evening breeze,
Or like some fairy, tiny lamp,
Glow'd out among the stirring leaves,
And down among the rushes damp,
Where Pestilence her vapor weaves,
Till shrub and reed, and slender stems,
Seemed drooping with a shower of gems.

The Widow raised her head once more,
Turned her still look upon the sky,
The lighted stream and broken shore;
Oh, God! it was a mockery,
--The bridegroom--Death--upon her breast
For aye possessing and possessed!
With the deep calmness of despair,
The mourner raised his marble head,
And on the silken cushions there,
With icy hands, composed the dead;
Then tore her veil off for a shroud,
And in her voiceless mourning bowed.

That holy sorrow might have awed
The very wind--but mockingly
It flung his matted hair abroad,
As trifling with her agony,
And with a low and moaning wail
Bore on its wings the bridal veil;
Then came a cold and starry ray,
And on his marble forehead lay.
Father of heaven! she could not brook
That floating hair, that rigid look.
With one quick gasp she forward sprung,
And to the helm in frenzy clung,
Until the barque shot on its way
Where a dense shadow darkest lay;
And there, as shrouded with a pall,
The barge swept to the very shore;
The fell hyena's fiendish call
Rang wildly to her ear once more,
And from the deep dark solitude
She saw the hungry jackall creep,
And whimper for his nightly food,
Where many a monster lay asleep
Just in the margin of the flood,
As resting from a feast of blood.
Around the corpse the widow flung
Her snowy arms, and madly clung
To that cold bosom, whence a chill
Shot through her heart, and frantic still
Her eyes in horror turned to seek
That prowling beast, whose hungry jaws
Worked fiercely and began to reek
With eager foam, as with his paws
He tore the turf impatiently,
And howling snuffed the passing clay.
It was not that she feared to die;
In the deep stillness of her heart,
Her spirit prayed most fervently
There with the dead to hold its part.
The only boon she cared to crave,
Was for them both a christian grave;
But oh! the agonizing thought!
That in her madness she had brought
That loved and lost one, for a feast,
To vulture and to prowling beast,
Where all things fierce and wild had come
To howl a horrid requiem.

But soon a stronger current bore
The freight of death from off the shore;
Again the trembling starlight broke
Above the still and changing clay,
And with its pearly kisses woke
The widow from her trance, who lay
Convulsed and shivering with dread,
Her white arms clinging to the dead;
For yet the stilly night wind bore
The wild beasts' disappointed roar.
Within the far o'erhanging wood,
A bulbul listening to her heart,
Poured forth upon the air a flood
Of gushing love;--with lips apart
The widow clasped her trembling hands,
And bent her ear to catch the strain,
As if a seraph's low commands
Were breathed into her soul;--again,
That heavenly sound came gushing out,
Like waters in their leaping shout;
Over her heart's deep frozen spring
The gentle strain went lingering,
And touched each icy tear that slept
With sudden life, until she wept.

* * * * *

Again the lovely morn awoke
Upon that temple still and lone;
Its rosy bloom in gladness broke,
And to the holy altar-stone
Came down subduedly and dim,
Through painted glass, o'er sculptured limb:
Outstretched within that gorgeous gloom,
Shaded by pall and sable plume,
As chisseled from the very stone,
The Bridegroom lay. A broken moan
Rose up from where the Widow bowed,
Her forehead buried in the pall,
Her fingers grasping still the shroud,
And every limb betraying all
The agony that wrung her heart.
It was a sad and fearful sight,
That lifted head, those lips apart,
When through the dim and purplish light
Those who obeyed the bridal call
Now gathered for the funeral;
A soft and solemn strain awoke
The silence of that lofty dome,
And through the fretted arches broke
The music surging to its home;
Then with a firm and heavy tread
The bearers slowly raised the dead;
She followed close, her trembling hand
Still clenched upon the gloomy pall,
In snowy robes and pearly band,
As at her wedding festival;
And in her bright disshevelled hair
A broken orange-blossom lay,
Withered and all entangled there;
Fit relic of her bridal day;
Thus onward to the tomb she passed,
Her white robe swaying to the blast,
And mingling at each stirring breath
There with the drapery of death.

JACK DOWNING'S VISIT TO PORTLAND.

By Seba Smith.

In the fall of the year 1829 I took it into my head I'd go to Portland. I had heard a good deal about Portland, what a fine place it was, and how the folks got rich there proper fast; and that fall there was a couple of new papers come up to Downingville from there, called the Portland Courier and Family Reader; and they told a good many queer kind of things about Portland and one thing another; and all at once it popped into my head, and I up and told father, and says I, I'm going to Portland whether or no; and I'll see what this world is made of yet. Father stared a little at first, and said he was afraid I should get lost; but when he see I was bent upon it, he give it up; and he stepped to his chist and opened the till, and took out a dollar and gave to me, and says he, Jack, this is all I can do for you; but go, and lead an honest life, and I believe I shall hear good of you yet. He turned and walked across the room, but I could see the tears start into his eyes, and mother sot down and had a hearty crying spell. This made me feel rather bad for a minute or two, and I almost had a mind to give it up; and then again father's dream came into my mind, and I mustered up courage, and declared I'd go. So I tackled up the old horse and packed in a load of ax handles and a few notions, and mother fried me some dough-nuts and put 'em into a box along with some cheese and sassages, and ropped me up another shirt, for I told her I did n't know how long I should be gone; and after I got all rigged out, I went round and bid all the neighbors good bye, and jumped in and drove off for Portland.

Ant Sally had been married two or three years before and moved to Portland, and I inquired round till I found out where she lived, and went there and put the old horse up and eat some supper and went to bed. And the next morning I got up and straightened right off to see the Editor of the Portland Courier, for I knew by what I had seen in his paper that he was just the man to tell me which way to steer. And when I come to see him I knew I was right; for soon as I told him my name and what I wanted, he took me by the hand as kind as if he had been a brother; and says he, Mr. Downing, I'll do any thing I can to assist you. You have come to a good town; Portland is a healthy thriving place, and any man with a proper degree of enterprise may do well here. But says he, Mr. Downing, and he looked mighty kind of knowing, says he, if you want to make out to your mind, you must do as the steamboats do. Well, says I, how do they do? for I did n't know what a steam boat was, any more than the man in the moon. Why, says he, they _go ahead_. And you must drive about among the folks here jest as though you were at home on the farm among the cattle. Dont be afraid of any of 'em, but figure away, and I dare say you will get into good business in a very little while. But, says he, there's one thing you must be careful of, and that is not to get into the hands of them are folks that trades up round Huckler's Row: for there's some sharpers up there, if they get hold of you, would twist your eye teeth out in five minutes. Well after he had gin me all the good advice he could I went back to Ant Sally's again and got some breakfast, and then I walked all over the town to see what chance I could find to sell my ax handles and things, and to get into business.

After I had walked about three or four hours I come along towards the upper end of the town where I found there were stores and shops of all sorts and sizes. And I met a feller, and says I, what place is this? Why this says he, is Huckler's Row. What, says I, are these the stores where the traders in Huckler's Row keep? And says he, yes. Well then, thinks I to myself, I have a pesky good mind to go in and have a try with one of these chaps, and see if they can twist my eye teeth out. If they can get the best end of a bargain out of me, they can do what there aint a man in Downingville can do, and I should jest like to know what sort of stuff these ere Portland chaps are made of. So in I goes into the best looking store among 'em. And I see some biscuit lying on the shelf, and says I, Mister, how much do you ax apiece for them are biscuit? A cent apiece, says he. Well, says I, I shant give you that, but if you 've a mind to, I'll give you two cents for three of 'em, for I begin to feel a little as though I should like to take a bite. Well, says he, I would n't sell 'em to any body else so, but seeing it 's you I dont care if you take 'em. I knew he lied, for he never see me before in his life. Well he handed down the biscuits and I took 'em, and walked round the store awhile to see what else he had to sell. At last, says I, Mister, have you got any good new cider? Says he, yes, as good as ever you see. Well, says I, what do you ax a glass for it? Two cents, says he. Well, says I, seems to me I feel more dry than I do hungry now. Aint you a mind to take these ere biscuit again and give me a glass of cider? And says he, I dont care if I do; so he took and laid 'em on the shelf again, and poured out a glass of cider. I took the cider and drinkt it down, and to tell the truth it was capital good cider. Then, says I, I guess it 's time for me to be a going, and I stept along towards the door. But, says he, stop Mister. I believe you have 'nt paid me for the cider. Not paid you for the cider, says I, what do you mean by that? Did n't the biscuit that I give you jest come to the cider? Oh, ah, right, says he. So I started to go again; and says he, but stop, Mister, you did n't pay me for the biscuit. What, says I, do you mean to impose upon me? do you think I am going to pay you for the biscuit and let you keep 'em tu? Aint they there now on your shelf, what more do you want? I guess sir, you dont whittle me in that way. So I turned about and marched off, and left the feller staring and thinking and scratching his head, as though he was struck with a dunderment. Howsomever, I did n't want to cheat him, only jest to show 'em it want so easy a matter to pull my eye teeth out, so I called in next day and paid him his two cents. Well I staid at Ant Sally's a week or two, and I went about town every day to see what chance I could find to trade off my ax handles, or hire out, or find some way or other to begin to seek my fortune.

And I must confess the editor of the Courier was about right in calling Portland a pretty good thriving sort of a place; every body seemed to be as busy as so many bees; and the masts of the vessels stuck up round the wharves as thick as pine trees in uncle Joshua's pasture; and the stores and the shops were so thick, it seemed as if there was no end to 'em. In short, although I have been round the world considerable, from that time to this, all the way from Madawaska to Washington, I 've never seen any place yet that I think has any business to grin at Portland.

PORTLAND AS IT WAS.

By William Willis.

The advantages which in early days our new country held out for employment, encouraged immigration, and the population was almost wholly made up by accessions from the more thickly peopled parts of Massachusetts. To the county of Essex particularly, in the early as well as more recent period of our history, the town is indebted for large portions of its population. Middlesex, Suffolk and the Old Colony, were not without their contributions. But the people did not come from such widely different sources as to produce any difficulty of amalgamation, or any striking diversity of manners. They formed one people and brought with them the steady habits and good principles of those from whom they had separated. There were some accessions before the revolution made to our population from the other side of the Atlantic; the emigrants readily incorporated themselves with our people and form a substantial part of the population. Within twenty years, the numbers by immigration have increased more rapidly, especially from Ireland, but not sufficiently to destroy the uniformity which characterises our population, nor to disturb the harmony of our community.

It cannot have escaped observation that one of the principal sources of our wealth has been the lumber trade. We have seen on the revival of the town in the early part of the last century, how intimately the progress of the town was connected with operations in timber. Before the revolution our commerce was sustained almost wholly by the large ships from England which loaded here with masts, spars, and boards for the mother country, and by ship building. The West India business was then comparatively small, employing but few vessels of inferior size. After the revolution our trade had to form new channels, and the employment of our own navigation was to give new activity to all the springs of industry and wealth. We find therefore that the enterprise of the people arose to the emergency, and in a few years our ships were floating on every ocean, becoming the carriers of southern as well as northern produce, and bringing back the money and commodities of other countries. The trade to the West Indies, supported by our lumber, increased vastly, and direct voyages were made in larger vessels than had before been employed, which received in exchange for the growth of our forests and our seas, sugar, molasses and rum, the triple products of the cane. This trade has contributed mainly to the advancement and prosperity of the town, has nourished a hardy race of seamen, and formed a people among the most active and enterprising of any in the United States.

The great changes which have taken place in the customs and manners of society since the revolution, must deeply impress the mind of a reflecting observer. These have extended not only to the outward forms of things, but to the habits of thought and to the very principles of character. The moral revolution has been as signal and striking as the political one; it upturned the old land marks of antiquated and hereditary customs and the obedience to mere authority, and established in their stead a more simple and just rule of action; it set up reason and common sense, and a true equality in the place of a factitious and conventional state of society which unrelentingly required a submission to its stern dictates; which made an unnatural distinction in moral power, and elevated the rich knave or fool to the station that humble and despised merit would have better graced.

These peculiarities have been destroyed by the silent and gradual operation of public opinion; the spirit which arose in the new world is spreading with the same effect over the old. Freedom of opinion is asserting a just sway, and it is only now to be feared that the principle will be carried too far, that authority will lose all its influence and that reason and a just estimate of human rights will not be sufficient restraints upon the passions of men. The experiment is going on, and unless education, an early and sound moral education go on with it, which will enlighten and strengthen the public mind, it will fail of success. The feelings and passions must be placed under the charge of moral principle, or we may expect an age of licentiousness to succeed one of authority and rigid discipline. We may be said now to be in the transition state of society.

Distinctions of rank among different classes of the community, a part of the old system, prevailed very much before the revolution and were preserved in the dress as well as in the forms of society. But the deference attached to robes of office and the formality of official station have all fled before the genius of our republican institutions; we look now upon the man and not upon his garments nor upon the post to which chance may have elevated him. In the circle of our little town, the lines were drawn with much strictness. The higher classes were called the _quality_, and were composed of persons not engaged in mechanic employments. We now occasionally find some old persons whose memory recurs with longing delight to the days in which these formal distinctions held uncontrolled sway.

The fashionable color of clothes among this class was drab; the coats were made with large cuffs reaching to the elbows, and low collars. All classes wore breeches which had not the advantage of being kept up as in modern times by suspenders; the dandies of that day wore embroidered silk vests with long pocket flaps and ruffles over their hands. Most of those above mentioned were engaged in trade, and the means of none were sufficiently ample to enable them to live without engaging in some employment. Still the pride of their cast was maintained, and although the cloak and perhaps the wig may have been laid aside in the dust and hurry of business, they were scrupulously retained when abroad.

There were many other expensive customs in that day to which the spirit of the age required implicit obedience; these demanded costly presents to be made and large expenses to be incurred at the three most important events in the history of man, his birth, marriage and death. In the latter it became particularly onerous and extended the influence of its example to the poorest classes of people, who in their show of grief, imitated, though at an immeasurable distance, the customs of the rich.