Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

A kind boy was Julius; and, without hesitation, he promised to take Marvel's treasure under his convoy. And, for the two years following, whenever the district school was in operation, Julius might be seen conducting the two little girls down the hill that leads to the bridge. At the bridge they loitered. Its charm was felt, but indefinable. It was a spell upon their senses; they would look up and down the sparkling stream till it winded far away from sight, and at their own pretty faces, that smiled again to them, and at Julius skittering the stones along the water, (a magical rustic art!) That old bridge was a point of sight for pictures, lovelier than Claude painted. For many a year, the old lingered there, to recall the poetry of their earlier days; lovers, to watch the rising and setting of many a star, and children to play out their "noon-times" and twilights. Heaven forgive those who replaced it with a dark, dirty, covered, barn-like thing of bad odour in every sense! The worst kind of barbarians, those, who make war--not upon life, but upon the life of life--its innocent pleasures!

But, we loiter with the children, when we should go on with them through the narrow lane intersecting broad, rich meadows, and shaded by pollard willows, which form living and growing posts for the prettiest of our northern fences, and round the turn by the old Indian burying-ground. Now, having come to "_the plain_," they pass the solemn precincts of the village Church, and that burying-ground where, since the Indian left his dead with us, generations of their successors are already lain. And now they enter the wide village street, wide as it is, shaded and embowered by dense maples and wide-stretching elms; and enlivened with neatly-trimmed court-yards and flower-gardens, It was a pleasant walk, and its sweet influences bound these young people's hearts together. We are not telling a love-story, and do not mean to intimate that this was the beginning of one--though we have heard of the seeds nature implants germinating at as early a period as this, and we remember a boy of six years old who, on being reproved by his mother for having kept his book open at one place, and his eye fixed on it for half an hour, replied, with touching frankness--

"Mother, I can see nothing there but Caroline Mitchell! Caroline Mitchell!"

Little Mary Marvel had no other sentiment for Julius than his sister had. She thought him the kindest and the best; and much as she reverenced the village pedagogues, she thought Julius's learning profounder than theirs, for he told them stories from the Arabian Nights--taught them the traditions of Monument Mountain--made them learn by heart the poetry that has immortalized them, and performed other miracles of learning and teaching, to which the schoolmaster didn't approach!

Children's judgments are formed on singular premises, but they are usually just conclusions. Julius was an extraordinary boy, and, fortunately, he was selected on that account, and not because he was sickly and could do nothing else (not uncommon grounds for this election), for a liberal education. Strong of heart and strong in body, he succeeded in everything, and without being a charge to his father. He went through college--was graduated with honour--studied law--and, when Mary Marvel was about nineteen, he came home from his residence in one of our thriving Western cities, for a vacation in his full legal business.

His first visit was to the Marvels, where he was received with as much warmth as in his father's home. As he left the house, he said to his sister Anne, who was with him--

"How shockingly poor Mary is looking!"

"Shockingly! Why, I expected you would say she was so pretty!"

"Pretty! My dear Anne, the roses on your cheek are worth all the beauty that is left in her pale face. What have they done to her? When you were children, she was at robust, round little thing--and so strong and cheerful--you could hear her voice half a mile, ringing like a bell; and now it's 'Hark from the tomb a doleful sound!' When I last saw her--let me see--four years ago--she was--not perhaps a Hebe--but a wholesome-looking girl."

"Julius!--what an expression!"

"Well, my dear, it conveys my meaning, and, therefore, is a good expression. What has been the matter? Has she had a fever? Is she diseased?"

"Julius! No! Is that the way the Western people talk about young ladies?--Mary is in poor health--rather delicate; but she does not look so different from the rest of our girls--I, you know, am an exception."

"Thank Heaven, you are, my dear Anne, and thank our dear, sensible mother, who understands the agents and means of health."

"But Mary's mother is a sensible woman too."

"Not in her treatment of Mary, I am sure. Tell me how she lives. What has she been about since I was here?"

"Why, soon after you went away, you know, I wrote to you that she had gone to the--School. You know her parents are willing to do everything for her--and Mary was very ambitious. They are hard students at that school. Mary told me she studied from eight to ten hours a day. She always got sick before examination, and had to send home for lots of pills. I remember Mrs. Marvel once sending her four boxes of Brandreth's at a time. But she took the first honours. At the end of her first term, she came home, looking, as you say, as if she had had a fever."

"And they sent her back?"

"Why, yes, certainly--term after term--for two years. You know Mary was always persevering; and so was her mother. And now they have their reward. There is not a girl anywhere who surpasses Mary for scholarship."

"Truly, they have their reward--infatuated people!" murmured Hasen. "Have they taken any measures to restore her health, Anne?"

"Oh, yes. Mrs. Marvel does not permit her to do any hard work. She does not even let her sweep her own room; they keep a domestic, you know; and, last winter, she had an air-tight stove in her room, and it was kept constantly warm, day and night. The draft was opened early; and Mrs. Marvel let Mary remain in bed as long as she pleased; and, feeling weak, she seldom was inclined to rise before nine or ten."

"Go on, Anne. What other sanitary measures were pursued?"

"Just such as we all take, when we are ill. She doctors, if she is more unwell than usual; and she rides out almost every pleasant day. There is nothing they won't do for her. There is no kind of pie or cake, sweetmeat or custard, that Mrs. Marvel does not make to tempt her appetite. If she wants to go to 'the plain,' Mr. Marvel harnesses, and drives over. You know, father would think it ridiculous to do it for me."

"Worse than ridiculous, Anne!--What does the poor girl do? How does she amuse herself?"

"I do believe, Julius, you are interested in Mary Marvel!"

"I am. I was always curious as to the different modes of suicide people adopt. Has she any occupation--any pleasure?"

"Oh, yes; she reads for ever, and studies; she is studying German now."

"Poor Mary!"

"What in the world makes you pity Mary, Julius?"

"Because, Anne, she hag been deprived of nature's best gift--defrauded of her inheritance: a sound constitution from temperate, active parents. One may have all the gifts, graces, charms, accomplishments, under Heaven, and, if they have not health, of what use or enjoyment are they? If that little, frail body of Mary Marvel's contained all that I have enumerated, it would be just the reverse of Pandora's box--having every good, but one curse that infected all."

"Dear Julius, I cannot bear to hear you talk so of Mary. I expected you would like her so much. I--I--hoped--. She is so pretty, so Lovely--she is fit for Heaven."

"She may be, Anne,--I do not doubt it; but she is very unfit for earth. What has her good, devoted, sensible, well-informed mother been about? If Mary had been taught the laws of health, and obeyed them, it would have been worth infinitely more to her than all she has got at your famous boarding-school, Ignorance of these laws is culpable in the mothers--disastrous, fatal to the daughters. It is a _disgrace_ to our people. The young women now coming on, will be as nervous, as weak, as wretched, as their unhappy mothers--languishing embodiments of diseases--mementos of doctors and pill-boxes, dragging out life in air-tight rooms, religiously struggling to perform their duties, and dying before they have half finished the allotted term of life. They have no life--no true enjoyment of life!"

"What a tirade, Julius! Any one would think you were a cross old bachelor!"

"On the contrary, my dear Anne, it is because I am a young bachelor and desire not to be a much older one, that I am so earnest on this subject. I have been travelling now for two months in rail-cars and steamers, and I could fill a medical journal with cases of young women, married and single, whom I have met from town and country, with every ill that flesh is heir to. I have been an involuntary auditor of their charming little confidences of 'chronic headaches,' nervous feelings,' 'weak-backs,' 'neuralgia,' and Heaven knows what all!"

"Oh, Julius! Julius!"

"It is true, Anne. And their whole care is, gentle and simple, to avoid the air; never to walk when they can ride; never to use cold water when they can get warm; never to eat bread when they can get cake, and so on, and so on, through the chapter. In the matter of eating and drinking, and such little garnitures as smoking and chewing, the men are worse. Fortunately, their occupations save most of them from the invalidism of the women. You think Mary Marvel beautiful?"

"No--not beautiful, perhaps,--but very, very pretty, and so loveable!"

"Well," rejoined Julius, coldly, after some hesitation, "Mary is pretty; her eye is beautiful; her whole face intelligent, but so pale, so thin--her lips so colourless--her hands so transparent, that I cannot look at her with any pleasure. I declare to you, Anne, when I see a woman with a lively eye, a clear, healthy skin, that shows the air of Heaven visits it daily--it may be, roughly--if it pleases, Heaven to roughen the day,--an elastic, vigorous step, and a strong, cheerful voice, I am ready to fall down and do her homage!"

Julius Hasen was sincere and zealous in his theory, but he is not the first man whose theories Love has overthrown. "Love laughs at locksmiths." and mischievously mocks at the stoutest bars and bolts of resolution.

Hasen passed the summer in his native town. He renewed his intimacy with his old neighbours. He perceived in Mary graces and qualities that made him feel the heavenly and forget the earthly; and, in spite of his wise, well-considered resolution, in three months he had impressed on her "pale cheek" the kiss of betrothal, and slipt an the third finger of her "transparent hand," the "engagement ring!"

But, we must do Julius Hasen justice. When his laughing sister rallied him on his inconsistency, he said--

"You are right, Anne; but I adhere to my text, though I must now uphold it as a beacon--not as an example. I must say with the Turk--'It was written.'"

He was true to himself and true to his wife; and, at the risk of shocking our young lady readers, we must betray that, after the wedding-ring, Hasen's first gift to Mary was--"The Principles of Physiology applied to the Preservation of Health, and the Improvement of Physical and Mental Education; by Andrew Combe, M. D." This book (which should be studied by every Mother in the United States) he accompanied by a solemn adjuration, that she would study and apply it. He did not stop here. After his marriage, he bought two riding-horses--mounted his bride on one and himself on the other, and thus performed the greater part of the journey to Indiana--only taking a rail-car for convenience, or a steamer for repose!

And, arrived at his Western home, and with the hearty acquiescence of his wife, who only needed to know the right, to pursue it, she began a physical life in obedience to the laws laid down by the said oracle, Andrew Combe.

Last fall, six years since his marriage, he brought his wife and two children to visit his Eastern friends. In reply to compliments on all hands, on his wife's improved health and beauty, he laughingly proposed to build, on the site of the old Indian dwelling, a quadrangular Temple, dedicated to the Four Ministers to Health--Air, Water, Exercise, and Regimen!

THE YOUNG HOUSEKEEPER.

"I HOPE, Emily, that you don't think I expect you to work--to spend the bright morning hours in the kitchen, when we commence keeping house," said George Brenton to his young wife.

This remark was made as he left the room, in reply to something which Emily had been saying relative to their projected plan of housekeeping. Mrs. Anderson, her mother, entered the parlour at one door, as her son-in-law left it by another. "And I hope," said she, "that, for your own sake as well as your husband's, you will not think of fulfilling his expectations--that is, strictly speaking."

"And why not? George is always pleased to have any suggestion of his attended to, however indirectly it may be made."

"He would not be pleased, if on trial it should compromise any of his customary enjoyments. George's income, as yet, is not sufficient to authorize you to keep more than one girl, who must be the maid-of-all-work; and even if you should be so fortunate as to procure one who understands the different kinds of household labour, there will be times when it will be necessary for you to perform some part of it yourself--much more to superintend it."

"But, mother, you know how I always hated the kitchen."

"This is a dislike which necessity will, or at least ought to overcome. You have never felt that there was much responsibility attached to the performance of such household tasks as I have always required of you, and in truth there never has been, as I could always have very well dispensed with them. I required them for your own good, rather than my own. Before habits of industry are formed, necessity is the only thing which will overcome our natural propensity to indulge in indolence."

"I am sure that I am not indolent. I always have my music, embroidery, or reading to attend to. As to being chained down to household drudgery, I cannot think of it, and I am certain that it would be as much against George's wishes as mine."

"It would undoubtedly be gratifying to him, whenever he had an hour or two, which he could spend at home, to see you tastefully dressed, and to have you at leisure so as to devote your time wholly to him."

"You make George out to be extremely selfish, which I am sure he is not."

"No, not more so than we all are."

"Why, mother, I am sure you are not selfish. You are always ready to sacrifice your own enjoyment for the sake of promoting that of others."

"I have been subjected to a longer course of discipline, than either you or George. I have lived long enough to know, that the true secret of making ourselves happy is to endeavour to make others so. This is, at least, the case with all those whose finer sensibilities have not been blunted, or, more properly speaking, have been rightly cultivated. But it will do no good to enter into a metaphysical discussion of the subject. The course proper to be pursued by a woman, whose husband's income is rather limited, appears to me perfectly plain."

"The course proper for me to pursue, is that which will best please George."

"Certainly, and that is precisely what I would advise you to do; but I don't think that literally acting upon this suggestion of his, respecting domestic duties, will please him for any great length of time."

Emily made no reply to this. She had decided in her own mind to obey the wishes of George, more especially as they exactly accorded with her own.

A few weeks from the time of the foregoing conversation, George and Emily Brenton commenced housekeeping. Their house was neatly and handsomely furnished, and through the influence of Emily's mother, Experience Breck, a girl thirty-five years old, who well understood domestic, labour, undertook to perform the duties of chambermaid, laundress, and cook, for what all concerned considered a reasonable compensation.

Their home, to make use of George's words, the first time he saw Emily's parents after everything was satisfactorily arranged, "was a little paradise." Pedy (the diminutive for Experience) was the best of cooks and clear-starchers, and never had he tasted such savory soups, and meat roasted so exactly to a turn, or such puddings and such pastry; and never had it been his fortune to wear shirt-bosoms and collars, which so completely emulated the drifted snow.

"And Emily too--she was the dearest and most cheerful of wives, and so bright an atmosphere always surrounded her, that one might almost imagine that she was a bundle of animated sunbeams. She was always ready to sing and play to him, or to listen while he read to her from some favourite author."

This eulogy was succeeded by an invitation to Mr. and Mrs. Anderson to dine with them the ensuing day, that they might judge for themselves that he did not colour the picture of their domestic bliss too highly.

The invitation was accepted; and Emily could not help taking her mother aside to tell her that since they saw each other, she had done nothing but read and play on the beautiful harp her uncle gave her, except that when she grew tired of these, she sewed a little; "and yet," she added, with a bright smile, "George has never given me, an unkind look--much more an unkind word."

"And you have been housekeeping four whole days."

"Eight days, mother!"

"It is only four days since everything was arranged, and you commenced talking your meals regularly at home."

"I know, but then if we can live happily four days, we can four years."

"Yes, if Pedy could always live with you."

"She appears to be quite well satisfied with her situation," was Emily's answer.

There was one at work, however, though neither he nor they realized it, who was sapping their happiness at its very foundation. This was an honest, intelligent farmer, by the name of Simon Lundley, who one day, when in the city, happened to overhear the praises bestowed on Pedy Breck by George Brenton, touching her excellence as a cook and clear-starcher.

"If," thought he, "she could do these well, the same good judgment would direct her how to excel in making butter and cheese; and as his mother, who kept his house, was growing old and infirm, it appeared to him that it would be convenient for her to have some person to assist her in the performance of these and other onerous duties belonging to the in-door work of a farm. He had seen Pedy a few months previous, when on a visit to a sister who resided in the neighbourhood of his home, and remembered of having thought it strange that she had never married as well as her sister, as she was remarkably good-looking." Simon Lundley, therefore, the next Sunday, about sunset, arrayed in a suit of substantial blue broadcloth, boldly presented himself at George Brenton's front door, and inquired if Miss Breck was at home. It proved to be a fortunate, as well as a bold step. Pedy recognised him at once, and had a kind of a vague prescience as to the object of his visit, or such might have been the inference drawn from the deep crimson which suddenly suffused her cheeks.

From that time he visited her regularly every Sunday, and it was soon decided that they should be married in season to enable her to pack the fall butter. This decision she, for sometime, delayed to communicate to Emily, from sheer bashfulness. She could not, she said, when she at last had wrought herself up to what appeared to her the very pinnacle of boldness, make up her mind to tell her before, for the life of her, but then, she did suppose that Simon kind of had her promise that she would be married to him in just three weeks from the next Sunday.

Emily immediately called on her mother to communicate to her the melancholy information. Mrs. Anderson saw that these were what might be termed "minor trials," for her daughter in prospective. She hoped that she would be discreet enough not to allow them to be magnified into what might appropriately be called major trials.

"Don't you think, mother," said Emily, "that you can manage to find, me a girl as good as Pedy?"

"I think it will be impossible. Pedy is a kind of _rara avis_ in all that appertains to housekeeping. She excels in everything. You will be obliged now to limit your expectations. If you can obtain a girl who knows how to cook well, it is the best you can hope to do. Even that, I am afraid, will prove very difficult."

"It appears to me that if girls who are obliged to work for a living understood what was for their good, they would be at more pains to inform themselves relative to what is expected of them."

"A great difficulty lies in the want of competent teachers. Such things are not known by instinct; and experience, though a good, is a slow teacher."

"If I have got to stay in the kitchen all the time to teach a girl, I may as well do the work myself."

"I will do the best I can for you, but you must not expect me to find you a girl who will fill Pedy's place, and do not, for your own sake--leaving George out of the question--be too afraid of the kitchen."

Mrs. Anderson fulfilled the promise she made her daughter. She did her best, and felt tolerably well satisfied at being able to find a girl who had done the cooking in a large family in the country for more than a year.

Pedy Breck left Mrs. Brenton on Saturday after tea, and Deborah Leach took her place on Monday morning. Emily gave her a few general directions and as usual, seated herself in the parlour with her books, her music, and her embroidery, as resources against ennui. Deborah, also, was abundantly provided with the means to keep her out of idleness. She said to herself, after receiving the directions from Emily, that she "guessed there wouldn't be time for much grass to grow under her feet that day."

Deborah did not possess Pedy's "sleight" at doing housework, and she felt a little discouraged when she found that, besides washing and preparing the dinner, she would be obliged to wash the dishes and do the chamber-work.

"I should think that she might take care of her own chamber," she said to herself; "and I don't think it would hurt her delicate hands a great deal, even if she should wash the dishes."

In consideration of its being washing-day, George had sent home beefsteak for dinner, and Pedy, the same as she always did, had made some pies on Saturday, and placed them in the refrigerator for Sunday and Monday. Deborah had not been much accustomed to broiling steaks, as the family where she had been living considered it more economical, when butter brought such a high price, to fry them with slices of pork; but knowing the celebrity of her predecessor in everything pertaining to the culinary art, she exerted her skill to the utmost, and succeeded in doing them very well, and in tolerable season, so that George, after he came home, had to wait for dinner only ten minutes, which passed away very quickly, as time always did when he was with Emily.

Deborah's first attempt at pastry was a decided failure. It was plain that she had never been initiated into the mysteries of making puff paste, nor did she, when telling over what she called her grievances to a friend, think it worth while, she said, "to _pomper_ the appetite by making pies sweet as sugar itself, when there were thousands of poor souls in the world that would jump at a piece of pie a good deal sourer than what Mr. Brenton and his idle, delicate wife pretended wasn't fit to eat. She was sure that she put two heapin' spoonfuls of sugar into the gooseberry pie, and half as much into the apple pie, and Miss Brenton might make her fruit pies, as she called 'em, herself the next time, for 'twas a privilege she didn't covet by no means."

But Mrs. Brenton did not covet the privilege more than she did, and after a great show of firmness on the subject, declaring to herself and her intimate friend that she never would give up, and that there was no use talkin' about it, she concluded she would try again, if Mrs. Brenton would stand right at her elbow and tell her the exact quantity of _ingredences_ she must put into each pie.

"I s'pose you calc'late to do the ironing?" she said to Emily, on Saturday morning.

"No, I am sure I don't," was Emily's reply. "I thought you had done it."

"Well, I havn't--I expected that you were agoing to do it. Miss Hodges, the woman I lived with before I came here, always did it, and she was the richest and genteelest woman in the place. She used to say there wasn't that girl on the face of the earth, that she would trust to starch and iron her fine linens and muslins, and laces."

Emily merely said that she was not in the habit of doing such things herself, and that she should expect her to do them.

Deborah went about her task very unwillingly. She told Emily that she knew she should sp'ile the whole lot, and she proved a true prophetess. The shirt-bosoms and collars bore indisputable evidence that she was not stinted for fuel, the hot flat-iron having left its full impress upon some, while "Charcoal Sketches," of a kind never dreamed of by Neal, were conspicuous on others. As for the muslins and laces, being of a frailer fabric, they gave way beneath the vigorous treatment to which they were subjected, and exhibited mere wrecks of their former selves. Not a single article was wearable which had passed through the severe ordeal of being starched and ironed by Deborah, and what was still more lamentable, many of them could not even, like an antique painting or statue, be restored.

"This is too bad," said George, as he contemplated his soiled and scorched linen. "It appears to me, Emily, that you might have seen what the girl was about before she spoiled the whole."

"How could I," said Emily, "when she was in the kitchen and I was in the parlour--hem-stitching your linen handkerchiefs? Pedy never needed any overseeing."

Some linen of a coarser texture which had passed through Pedy's hands, was obliged to be resorted to on the present occasion, while Emily concealed her chagrin from George on account of the destruction of some Brussels lace, the gift of the same generous uncle who gave her the harp. She silently made up her mind that for the future she would not trust such articles to the unskilful Deborah.

Hitherto George, who probably had recalled to mind what he had said to Emily previous to commencing housekeeping, had never, except in a playful manner, alluded to the ill-dressed food which daily made its appearance on the table. To-day, however, when they returned from church and sat down to dinner, probably owing to being a little sore on the subject of the soiled linen, Emily saw him knit his brows in rather a portentous manner, while, in no very amiable tone of voice, he said--

"It appears to me that this girl don't understand how to do anything as it ought to be done--not even to boil a piece of corned beef. This is as salt as the ocean, and hard as a flint. If the girl has common sense, I am sure she could do better if you would give her a few directions. I confess that I am tired of eating ill-cooked meat, half-done vegetables, and heavy bread, and of drinking a certain muddy decoction, dignified by the name of coffee."

"Such food is, of course, no more palatable to me than to you; but I thought, by what I have heard you stay, that you would not be pleased when you came home to dinner to see me with a flushed face and in an unbecoming dress, which must be the case if I undertake to do the principal part of the cooking myself, and to superintend the whole."

"We must try and get some one that will do better," said George.

"I don't think that it will be of any use," replied Emily. "We may as well try her another week."

The truth was, she had had, for several days, a dim perception that the indolence she had indulged in since released from her mother's influence, was not half so delightful as she had anticipated. Her physical and mental energies had remained so entirely quiescent, that she began to think it would be rather a luxury to be a little fatigued. She moreover half suspected that Deborah might, and would do better, if not embarrassed with that feeling of hurry and perplexity, which so many of what in colloquial phrase are sometimes termed slow-moulded people, experience when obliged to divide their attention among a variety of objects.

Monday morning, Emily determined that she would turn over a new leaf: and a bright leaf it proved to be. She told Deborah, that for the future she should take care of her own room, prepare the dessert, and starch and iron all the nicer articles.

"I am glad to hear you say so, ma'am, I am sure," said Deborah, "for when I have to keep going from one thing to another, my head spins around like a top, and I can't do a single thing as it ought to be done. How Pedy Breck got along so smooth and slick with the work, I don't know, nor never shall. I can make as good light bread as ever was--I won't give up to anybody--but when I made the last, my mind was all stirred up with a puddin'-stick as 'twere, and I couldn't remember whether I put any yeast into it or not."

From this time all went well. Deborah, in her slow way, proved to be a treasure. She told Emily that, "Give her time, nobody could beat her at a boiled dish, apple-dumplings, or a loaf of bread," and the result proved that her words were no vain boast.

"I have concluded to follow your advice," said Emily, the next time she saw her mother, "and look into the kitchen occasionally."

"I am glad to hear it, and I have no doubt that you will enjoy yourself much better for it."

"I am certain that I shall--I do already. You can't imagine what queer, fretful-looking lines were beginning to show themselves on George's brow. He would have looked old enough for a grandfather in a few years, if I had gone on trying to realize the hope he expressed, that I would abstain from the performance of all household tasks. And I should have looked quite as old as he, I suspect, for I believe that the consciousness of neglected duties is one of the heaviest burdens which can be borne."

TO AN ABSENT WIFE.

'TIS Morn:--the sea breeze seems to bring
Joy, health, and freshness on its wing;
Bright flowers, to me all strange and new,
Are glittering in the early dew,
And perfumes rise from every grove,
As incense to the clouds that move
Like spirits o'er yon welkin clear,--
_But I am sad--thou are not here!_

'Tis Noon:--a calm, unbroken sleep
Is on the blue waves of the deep;
A soft haze, like a fairy dream,
Is floating over wood and stream;
And many a broad magnolia flower,
Within its shadowy woodland bower,
Is gleaming like a lovely star,--
But I am sad--_thou art afar!_

'Tis Eve:--on earth the sunset skies
Are painting their own Eden dyes;
The stars come down and trembling glow,
Like blossoms in the waves below;
And like an unseen sprite, the breeze
Seems lingering midst these orange trees,
Breathing its music round the spot,--
But I am sad--_I see thee not!_

'Tis Midnight:--with a soothing spell
The far-off tones of ocean swell--
Soft as a mother's cadence mild,
Low bending o'er her sleeping child;
And on each wandering breeze are heard
The rich notes of the mocking bird,
In many a wild and wondrous lay,--
But I am sad--_thou art away!_

I sink in dreams:--low, sweet, and clear,
Thy own dear voice is in my ear:--
Around my cheek thy tresses twine--
Thy own loved hand is clasped in mine,
Thy own soft lip to mine is pressed--
Thy head is pillowed on my breast;
Oh, I have all my heart holds dear,
_And I am happy--thou art here!_

THE WORD OF PRAISE.

A LITTLE thing is a sunbeam--a very little thing. It streams through our casement, making the cheerful room still more cheerful; and yet so accustomed are we to its presence, that we notice it not, and heed not its exhilarating effect.

But its absence would be quickly seen and felt. The unfortunate prisoner in his dimly-lighted cell would hail with rapture that blessed stream of light; and the scarcely less imprisoned inmates of the more obscure streets of our crowded cities would welcome it as a messenger from Heaven.

It is even thus with the sunbeams of the human heart. Trifling things they are in themselves, for the heart is wonderfully constituted, and it vibrates to the slightest touch; but without them life is a blank--all seems cold and lifeless as the marble slab which marks the spot where the departed loved one lies.

A gloomy home was that of Henry Howard, and yet all the elements of human happiness seemed to be there. Wealth sufficient to secure all the comforts and many of the luxuries of life, was theirs, and both husband and wife were regarded by their numerous acquaintances as exceedingly intelligent and estimable people--and so indeed they were. The light tread of childhood was not wanting in their home, although its merry laugh was seldom heard, for the little children seemed to possess a gravity beyond their years, and that glad joyousness which it is so delightful to witness in infancy, was with them seldom or never visible.

Life's sunbeams seemed strangely wanting, yet the why and wherefore was to the casual observer an unfathomable mystery.

Years before, that wife and mother had left the home of her childhood a happy and trusting bride. Scarcely seventeen, the love which she had bestowed upon him who was now her husband, was the first pure affections of her virgin heart, and in many respects he was worthy of her love, and, as far as was in his nature, returned it. Her senior by many years, he was possessed of high moral principles, good intellectual endowments, and an unblemished reputation among his fellow men.

But there was a cold, repulsive manner, at variance sometimes with his more interior feelings, which could ill meet the warm, affectionate disposition of his young wife, who, cherished and petted in her father's house, looked for the same fond endearments from him to whom she had given all.

Proud of her beauty and intelligence, charmed with her sprightliness and wit, the man was for a time lost in the lover, and enough of fondness and affection were manifested to satisfy the confiding Mary, who had invested her earthly idol with every attribute of perfection. But as months passed on, and he again became immersed in his business, his true character, or, more properly speaking, his habitual manners, were again resumed, and the heart of the wife was often pained by an appearance of coldness and indifference, which seemed to chill and repulse the best affections of her nature.

Tears and remonstrance were useless, for the husband was himself unaware of the change. Was not every comfort amply provided, every request complied with? What more could any reasonable woman desire?

Alas! he knew but little of a woman's heart; of that fountain of love which is perpetually gushing forth toward him who first caused its waters to flow: and still less did he know of the fearful effect of the constant repressing of each warm affection. He dreamed not that the loving heart could become cold and dead, and that his own icy nature would soon be rejected in the devoted being who now clung to him so fondly.

It was but in little things that he was deficient, mere trifles, but still they constituted the happiness or woe of the wife of his bosom.

The loving glance was seldom returned, the affectionate pressure of the hand seemed unfelt, the constant effort to please remained unnoticed. One word of praise, one kindly look, was all that was desired, but these were withheld, and the charm of life was gone.

Gradual was the change. Bitter tears were shed, and earnest endeavours to produce a happier state of things were sometimes made, but in vain. Oh! could the husband but have known how wistfully that young creature often gazed upon him as he sat at the evening meal upon his return from business, and partook of luxuries which her hand had prepared in the hope of eliciting some token of approbation--could he have seen the anxious care with which domestic duties were superintended, the attention paid to the toilette, the constant regard to his most casually expressed wishes, surely, surely he would have renounced for ever that cold, repulsive manner, and clasped to his bosom the gentle being whom he had so lately vowed to love and cherish.

But he saw it not--felt it not. Still proud of her beauty and talents, he loved to exhibit her to an admiring world, but the fond endearments of home were wanting. He knew nothing of the yearnings of that devoted heart; and while the slightest deviation from his wishes was noticed and reprimanded, the eager and intense desire to please was unheeded--the earnestly desired word of praise was never spoken.

The first year of wedded life passed away, and a new chord was awakened. Mary had become a mother; and as she pressed the babe to her bosom, new hopes were aroused. The clouds which had gathered around her seemed passing away, and the cheering sunbeams again broke forth. The manifest solicitude of her husband in the hour of danger, the affection with which he had gazed on the countenance of his first-born, were promises of happy days to come.

But, alas! these hopes were but illusory. All that a father could do for the welfare of an infant was scrupulously performed, but its expanding intellect, its innocent playfulness, soon remained unmarked--apparently uncared for.

"Is he not lovely?" exclaimed the fond mother, as the babe stretched his little hands and crowed a welcome as the father entered.

"He seems to be a good, healthy child," was the quiet reply. "I see nothing, particularly lovely in an infant six months old, and if I did I would not tell it so. Praise is very injurious to children, and you should school yourself from the first, Mary, to restrain your feelings, and utter no expressions which will have a tendency to foster the self-esteem common to us all. Teach your children to perform their duties from a higher motive than the hope of praise."

A chill like that of mid-winter came over the heart of the wife as she listened to the grave rebuke.

There was truth in the words. Our duties should be performed from higher motives than the approbation of our fellow men; but that little word of praise from those we love--surely, surely it cannot be hurtful. It is one of life's brightest sunbeams, encouraging the weak, soothing the long-suffering, bringing rest to the weary and hope to the desponding.

Something of this Mary longed to urge, but her husband had already turned away, and the words died on her lips.

Time passed on. Another and another child had been added to the number, until four bright little faces were seen around the family table. The father seemed unchanged. Increasing years had altered neither the outer nor the inner man, but in the wife and mother few would have recognized the warm-hearted, impulsive girl, who ten years before had left her fathers home, with bright visions of the future floating before her youthful mind.

Whence came that perfect calmness of demeanour, that almost stoical indifference to all that was passing around her? To husband, children, and servants she was the same. Their comfort was cared for, the routine of daily duties strictly performed, but always with that cold, lifeless manner, strangely at variance with her natural disposition.

But the change had come gradually, and the husband noticed it not. To him, Mary had only grown more matronly, and, wisely laying aside the frivolity of girlhood, had acquired the sedateness of riper years. True, there were moments when his indifference was somewhat annoying. Although he never praised, he often blamed, and his lightest word of rebuke was at first always met with a gush of tears, but now there was no sign of emotion; the placid countenance remained unchanged, and quietly he was told that his wishes should be attended to. Certainly this was all that he could desire, but he would have liked to feel that his pleasure or displeasure was a matter of more consequence than it now appeared to be.

And yet the warm affections of the heart were not all dead. They slumbered--were chilled, paralyzed, starving for want of their proper and natural nourishment, but there was still life, and there were times when the spirit again thrilled with rapture, as the loving arms of childhood were twined around the mother's neck, or the curly head rested upon her bosom.

But to the little ones, as to others, there was the same cold uniformity of manner, a want of that endearing tenderness which forms so close a tie between mother and child. Their health, and the cultivation of their minds, were never neglected, but the education of the heart remained uncared for, and the spot which should have bloomed with good and true affection, was but a wilderness of weeds.

The two eldest children were promising boys of seven and nine years old. Full of health, and buoyant, although constantly repressed spirits, they thought not and cared not for aught save the supply of their bodily wants; but with the third child, the gentle Eva, it was far otherwise. From infancy her little frame had been so frail and delicate, that it seemed as if the spirit was constantly struggling to leave its earthly tenement; but her fifth year was rapidly approaching, and still she lingered a blessed minister of love in that cheerless home.

How wistfully she gazed upon the mother's face as she unweariedly performed the many little offices necessary for her comfort, but ever with the same frigid, unchanging manner! How earnestly she longed for that manifestation of tenderness which she had never felt! Even the stern father spoke to her in gentler and more subdued tones than was his wont, and would sometimes stroke the silky hair from her white forehead, and call her his "poor child."

But it was the fondness of a mother's love for which the little one yearned, and with unerring instinct she felt that beneath that calm and cold exterior, the waters of the fountain were still gushing. Once, when after a day of restless pain she had sunk into an uneasy slumber, she was aroused by the fervent pressure of that mother's kiss, and through her half-opening eyelids she perceived the tears which were flowing over her pale face. In an instant the arms of the affectionate child were clasped about her neck, and the soft voice whispered,--

"Dearest mother, do you not love your little Eva?"

But all emotion was instantly repressed, and quietly as ever came the answer--

"Certainly, my child, I love you all. But lie down now, and take some rest. You have been dreaming."

"'Twas such a happy dream," murmured the patient little sufferer, as obedient to her mother's words she again closed her eyes, and lay motionless upon her pillow. Once more she slept, and a sweet smile beamed upon her countenance, and her lips moved as if about to speak. The watchful mother bent over her.

"Kiss me again, dear mother," lisped the slumberer. "Call me your dear little Eva."

None could tell the workings of that stricken heart, as hour after hour the mother watched by her sleeping child; but the dawn of morning found her still the same; statue-like as marble, that once speaking face reflected not the fires within.

Day after day passed on, and it was evident that the spirit of the innocent child would soon rejoice in its heavenly home.

She could no longer raise her wasted little form from the bed of pain, but still her deep blue eyes gazed lovingly upon those around her, and her soft voice spoke of patience and submission.

The last hour drew near, and the little sufferer lay in her mother's arms. The destroyer claimed but the frail earthly covering, and even now the immortal soul shone forth in its heavenly brightness.

"Am I not going to my Father in Heaven?" she whispered, as she gazed earnestly upon her mother's face.

"Yes, dearest, yes," was the almost inaudible reply.

"And will the good angels watch over me, and be to me as a mother?" again asked the child.

"Far, far better than any earthly parent, my dear one."

A radiant smile illumined the countenance of the dying child. The fond words of her mother were sweet music to her ear.

The father approached, and bent over her.

"My little Eva," he whispered, "will you not speak to me?"

"I love you, dear father," was the earnest answer, "and when I am in Heaven I will pray for you, and for my poor mother;" and again those speaking eyes were riveted upon the mother's face, as if she would read her inmost griefs.

The physician entered, and, in the vain hope of prolonging life, judged it necessary to make some external applications to relieve the difficulty of breathing, which was fast increasing. The pain was borne without a murmur.

"Do I not try to be patient, mother?" whispered that little voice.

"Yes, darling, you are a dear, patient, good little girl."

An expression of happiness, amounting almost to rapture, beamed in Eva's face, at these words of unqualified praise.

"Oh, mother! dear, dear mother," she exclaimed, "will you not always call your little Eva your dear, good little girl? Oh, I will try to be so very good if you will. My heart is so glad now," and with the strength produced by the sudden excitement, she clasped her feeble arms about her mother's neck.

"Her mind begins to wander," whispered the physician to the father; but there was no reply. A sudden light had broken upon that stern man, and motionless he stood, and listened to the words of his dying child.

But she had already sunk back in an apparent slumber, and hour after hour those calm but agonized parents sat watching by her side, at times almost believing that the spirit had indeed gone, so deep was the repose of that last earthly slumber.

At length she aroused, and with the same beautiful smile which had played upon her features when she sunk to rest, again exclaimed,

"I am so very happy, dear mother; will you call me your good little Eva once more?"

In a voice almost suffocated with emotion, the desired words were again breathed forth, and long and fervent kisses imprinted upon the child's pale cheek.

"My heart is so glad!" she murmured. "Oh, mother, kiss my brothers when I am gone, and smile upon them and call them good. It is like the sunlight on a cloudy day.

"Put your face close to mine, dear father, and let me whisper in your ear. Call poor mother good, sometimes, and kiss her as you do me, now that I am dying, and she will never look so sad any more."

"I will, my precious child! I will!" And the head of the strong man bowed upon his breast, and he wept.

A change passed over the countenance of the little one.

"The angels will take me now," she whispered. The eyelids closed, there was no struggle, but the parents saw that her mission on earth was ended. Henceforth she would rejoice in the world where all is light and love.

The mother wept not as she gazed upon that lifeless clay. She wept not as she laid the little form upon the bed, and straightened the limbs already stiffening in the embrace of death; but when her husband clasped her to his bosom, and uttered words of endearing affection, a wild scream burst from her lips, and she sunk back in his arms, apparently as unconscious as the child who lay before them.

A long and alarming state of insensibility was succeeded by weeks of fever and delirium.

How many bitter but useful lessons did the husband learn as he watched by her bed-side! Often in the still hours of the night, when all save himself slumbered, she would gaze upon him with that earnest, loving, but reproachful look, which he well remembered to have seen in years gone by, and murmur,

"Just one kind glance, Henry, one little kiss, one word of love and praise."

And then as he bent fondly over her, that cold, fixed expression, which she had so long worn, would again steal over her countenance, and mournfully she added,

"Too late, too late. The heart is seared and dead. See, little Eva stands and beckons me to the land of love. Yes, dear one, I come."

But the crisis came, and though feeble as an infant, the physicians declared the danger past. Careful nursing, and freedom from excitement, would restore the wife and mother to her family.

With unequalled tenderness did her husband watch over her, but with returning health returned also that unnatural frigidity of manner. There was no response to his words or looks of love.

Was it, indeed, too late? Had his knowledge of the wants of a woman's heart come only when the heart, which once beat for him alone, had become as stone?

It was the anniversary of their marriage. Eleven years before they had stood at the altar and taken those holy vows. Well did Henry Howard recollect that bridal morning. And how had he fulfilled the trust reposed in him? With bitter remorse he gazed upon the wreck before him, and thought of that gentle being once so full of love and joy.

An earnest prayer broke from his lips, and his arms were clasped around her.

"Mary, dear Mary," he whispered, "may not the past be forgotten? Grievously have I erred, but believe me, it has been partly through ignorance. An orphan from my earliest childhood, I knew not the blessing of a mother's love. Cold and stern in my nature, I comprehended not the wants of your gentle spirit. I see it all now: your constant self-denial, your untiring efforts to please, until, wearied and discouraged, your very heart's-blood seemed chilled within you, and you became the living image of that cold heartlessness which had caused the fearful change.

"But may we not forget the past? Will you not be once more my loving, joyous bride, and the remainder of my life shall be devoted to your happiness?"

Almost fearful was the agitation which shook that feeble frame, and it was long before there was a reply.

At length, in the words of little Eva, she whispered, "Oh my husband! My own dear husband! My heart is so glad! I had thought it cold and dead, but now it again beats responsive to your words of love. The prayers of my angel-child have been answered, and happiness will yet be ours. My dear, dear Eva, how often have I wept as I thought of my coldness toward her, and yet all power to show my earnest love seemed gone for ever."

"It slumbered, dearest, but it is not gone. The breath of affection will again revive your warm-hearted, generous nature, and our remaining little ones will rejoice in the sunshine of a mother's love. Our Eva, from her heavenly home, will gaze with joy upon those she held so dear."

Another year, and few would have recognised that once dreary home.