Chapter IV: The Grave Yard (1)

Let us wander by this winding road to the place of graves, the great charnel house where so many, who were formerly actors on life's busy stage, have laid them down in the sleep of death. Many are the changes that meet the eye as we pass along, but there are many traces left that awaken memories of past friends and past years. Here are the dear old trees under which we have played; the rocks upon which we have sat, and the stream on which we have sailed; but which now is greatly augmented in size, as it is now an outlet to the large reservoir of water, into which the meadow above has been converted.

Crossing the bridge and ascending the hill, let us enter the grave yard, and contemplate the change that rolling years have made in this spot;

"Our fathers, where are they?"

Methinks the stones at our feet cry out--"All flesh is grass."

This is an ancient burial place; and as we look upon the dates of the headstones, how forcibly do we feel "one generation passeth away and another generation cometh." Many of the monuments have ceased to be a memorial; having crumbled away, and the inscriptions become entirely obliterated by the thick covering of green moss that has gathered upon them. Is not this a lesson that is calculated to humble the pride of man? But we will pause by the graves of the dear uncle and aunt, whose remains we saw deposited here many years ago, when our young footsteps bounded with all the elasticity of childhood. But though sweeping years have borne away the halcyon days of childhood, the golden days of youth, and the sobered and subdued period of middle life, and our sun has passed its meridian and is verging rapidly towards its setting, still this grief comes back again with all its first freshness. Here for the first time these eyes looked into an untenanted grave; for the first time saw the coffin let down into the "dark and narrow house," and heard the hollow sound as the earth fell upon it--and deep was the impression that was made upon the childish memory, and so faithful is she to her trust that at this moment, when standing upon this spot, she brings it back again, untarnished by the long years that have passed away. The little heaped up mound that covered their remains has sunk to a level with its kindred dust, and the inscriptions upon the headstones, though legible, are much defaced. Can it be that here are the dear forms whose voices I heard, upon whose knees I sat, and who led me by the hand, day after day? Even so. Were it not for revelation, "that light and immortality are brought to light" by the gospel, how dark would be the grave; who could fathom its mysterious confines, or penetrate its darkness? But the Saviour has shed a radiance around it, and assured us "the graves shall give up their dead; that we shall all come forth and be judged according to the deeds done in the body." Happy they, who learn this most important lesson, and live up to the great principles it inculcates.

Methinks the murmur of the summer breeze, as it sighs through the waving branches of the weeping willow, as it stands drooping over an adjoining grave, seems the gentle whisper of departed spirits, wooing us to the skies. As we glance far off in the distance from this elevated spot, we see the toil and turmoil of life--its struggles, cares and disappointments, and then contemplating the scene around us, we feel that, this must be the end of all who live. Here lie those for whom we sought in vain in the places where we formerly knew them. Here repose the remains of our family physician, who, for many years, was called in all cases of sickness, and was like a brother in the family. By his side sleeps his amiable wife; as we look upon their graves for the first time, we remember them as they were in life, and heave a sigh to their memory.

Here lies a school companion who died at a very early age; we had won prizes and received our little books from the hands of our dear teacher, and that is my only recollection of him. His seat was vacant, and they told me he was dead; but then I knew nothing of death.

Here, too, are the graves of Elizabeth Ann Prince, Julia Balcolm, the poor cripple, and many others, who have sat with me in the dear old school house. One in particular strikes the mind with peculiar solemnity. It is the grave of Edward Davis; he was a young man of superior talents, uncommon beauty and prepossessing manners. He was rich in this world's goods, and married an amiable young lady, in all respects his equal; they lived happily together several years, and had several children, but sickness came like a blight upon him, and he was soon conveyed to the silent tomb, leaving his wife and children to mourn his loss.

Here, side by side, are the graves of an entire household, consisting of the maternal grandmother, two sisters of the father, the father and mother, and seven children, with the wife of one of the sons. Not twelve rods from their own door they sleep side by side--that many voiced household, in the silence of death. No voice breaks the stillness; no words of love are interchanged; but their dust shall mingle together till the morning of the resurrection, teaching an impressive lesson to those that stand by their graves and read the inscriptions upon their tombstones.

Here is buried the dear old deacon and his wife, by whose bedside we stood when his forehead was wet with the damp dews of death, and his eye lighted up by faith, seemed to scan the glories of the upper world, and he felt it was "far better to depart and be with Christ." And even then came, "let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his." His devoted, pious wife soon followed him, and we feel, as we look upon their graves, there is rest in Heaven. At their feet lie children, grand-children and great-grand-children.

Clara Everett was a promising young girl, cut down at the early age of nineteen. She was left an orphan at the age of nine months, her father dying suddenly, and her mother a few weeks after, with consumption. She was tenderly cared for by her maternal grand-parents and a maiden aunt, well educated and had commenced teaching, when she was seized suddenly with an alarming fever, which in a few short days, was terminated by death. They bore her to the resting place with many tears, and placed her beside those dear parents from whom she was so early separated. Many here, that lived a life of dissipation, have gone down to fill a drunkard's grave;

"But we'll tread lightly on the ashes of the dead."

Why should we uncover the frailties of poor mortality, unless to hold them up as beacon lights to the rising generation? and for this purpose we would take the living example.

Here is buried an aged woman, who lived in poverty. She had the shaking palsy, and it was with great difficulty she could perform any labor; she was assisted by the town and the charities of the neighborhood. She had one daughter, who was an invalid many years, and dependant upon the care of the feeble mother. The children of the village were the willing bearers of many comforts to these poor people; and even now seems to come the well remembered "tell your mother I am much obliged to her," from the pale lips that lie buried beneath the sod. The daughter is buried by her side, and methinks they sleep as sweetly as the more wealthy citizen, beneath a more splendid monument. All here meet upon a common level--the old, the young, the rich, the poor, the bond and free, for death is no respecter of persons.

Here, too, rests a young physician, who supplied the place of the old one. His career was like the meteor flash, emitting its brilliant rays for a season, and then was shrouded in death's dark night.

As we stand upon this spot and contemplate it as it was when we last stood upon it, we feel that here has been the greatest change of any place yet visited. Here we meet many a name familiar to the ear, and a form familiar to the eye starts into life, and treads again its mazy scenes. Many monuments are erected to entire strangers, and this is our first meeting with them. Here the infant of a few days lies buried, just tasting the cup of life, he turned sickening away, and yielding it up, soared away with the angel band to the realms of bliss.

But ere we leave the yard, let us visit the resting place of the beautiful Clarinda Robinson, who died at the early age of nineteen. She had ever enjoyed undiminished health. But soon, oh, how soon, the rose of health faded upon her cheek; her sparkling eye lost its lustre, and the animated form, stiffened in death, was laid away in its silent chamber. At her feet lie two beautiful nieces, called, too, in the morning of their days to go and make their beds with her. Sadly did the bereaved mother mourn their loss; but the pale messenger came for her too, in a few weary years, and she joined them in the pale realms of shade.

Here, too, sleeps the young wife, called soon away from the husband of her youth. Consumption, like a worm in the bud, preyed upon the damask of her cheek, dried up the fountain of her life, and bore her triumphantly, another victim of his power. The old sexton, too, who from time immemorial, had been

"The maker of the dead man's bed,"

has laid down his mattock and his spade, and filled a grave prepared by other hands. At his feet lies a lovely daughter, snatched suddenly away, ere the bloom of youth had passed, and almost without a moment's warning, leaving a husband and a dear little child, too young to feel its loss.

But while we have yet lingered, the sun has finished his journey, and hid his bright beams behind the curtain of the west, and already have the shadows of coming twilight gathered around us, and the white marble slabs, dimly seen in its shadows, assume strange, mysterious shapes, and seem almost like moving things of life, while the darker slate are lost to view.

We will sit a moment on the grave of our dear old aunt. This was the spot designated for our family burying place; but it is now filled with strangers. We will now leave this spot, to toss again upon the waves of time; but may the lesson here learned go with us, and prepare us for the day when the heart and flesh shall fail, and we must change this for another life, ever remembering,

"That life is long that answers life's great end."

Midnight Scenes

Or, Pictures of Human Life.

Picture No. I.

The midnight moon shone drear and cold,
Upon a stately tow'r;
Whose ramparts high and turrets bold
Bespoke a lordly pow'r.

The dancing waters flash'd and gleam'd
Beneath her silver ray;
And gently fell her placid beam,
On tower and turret gray.

And softly came the silent dew,
And fell with gentle pow'r,
Sparkling like gems, or diamonds fair,
On trembling leaf and flow'r.

Fair night hung out her golden lamps,
In her blue chambers high;
And earth, all gemmed, in their pure light,
Lay lovely to the eye.

But look within those costly halls,
Where waxen tapers gleam,
And crimson curtains' silken folds
Exclude the moon's bright beams.

A queenly matron mournful sits,
In all her jewelled pride;
The costly diamond on her breast,
Its anguish cannot hide.

The angel of the raven wing
His sable plume waves there,
And writhing on his silken couch,
Lies stretch'd the only heir.

She feels how vain a thing is wealth,
To ease that lab'ring breath,--
Or bribe, in his resistless course,
The tyrant monster, death.

The hours of night passed slow away,
When brightly rose the sun;
The boy in quiet beauty lay--
The fearful work was done.

The angel had performed his part,
And back to heav'n had flown;
The mother with a bursting heart,
Sat weeping now, alone.

She rising, smoothed his golden hair,
One ringlet gently shred;
And then, within a costly shroud,
She wrapped her silent dead.

And folded light the snowy screen,
That hid from every eye
Those features, beautiful in death,
And marble forehead high.

But hark! she hears a prancing hoof,
And sees a horseman come;
Soon the proud charger reached her side,
Cover'd with dust and foam.

Her husband from the saddle springs,
And clasps her to his breast;
And on her icy lip and brow
The kiss of love was pressed.

"How is our son?" the father cried;
In his, her hand she placed,
And through their gorgeous, darkened halls,
Their silent way they traced.

Nor stopped, until they reached his side,
Who yesterday, in health,--
The mother's joy, the father's pride,--
Was heir to all their wealth.

The mother folded back the screen,
And said, "There lays our child;"
Then overcome with bursting grief,
They wept in accents wild.

They laid him in a marble tomb,
With all that wealth could show;
But deeply in their castled home
Dark rolled the tide of woe.

Picture No. II.

The midnight moon, with pallid beams,
From eastern sky again
Look'd forth, and shed her fitful gleams
On mountain, hill and plain.

And far upon the moaning sea,
She threw her mellow light;
And tossing waves, and heaving spray,
Were gemm'd with diamonds bright.

But oft a fitful shadow came,
And rested like a shroud;
For, o'er her bright and tranquil face;
Stole many a passing cloud.

The night winds moan'd, and plaintive sigh'd,
O'er mountain, sea and vale,
And whistled round a lowly cot,
Where sat a mother, pale.

Her raven hair was parted smooth
Upon her forehead high;
And though her face was pale with care,
Yet mildly beamed her eye.

And beauty left a ling'ring trace,
Upon each feature there;
Which, with sweet dignity and grace,
Blended with ev'ry air.

A feeble taper dimly burn'd,
As swift her task she plied,
And oft her anxious gaze was turn'd
Where, nestled by her side,--

On a low pallet, sleeping lay
A darling, cherub boy,
With curling hair and azure eyes,
His mother's only joy.

Calm was his sleep; but starting once,
Half springing from his bed,
He spake, in accents faint and low,
"O, mother, give me bread."

And then her task she quicker plied,--
The starting tear repressed,
And, "Oh, my God!" she meekly cried,
"Protect the fatherless."

And so she toil'd, till morning spread
Her earliest tints of gray
Across the distant, eastern sky,
Then kneeling down to pray

Beside the little, lowly cot,
Her soul in trust was giv'n,
Unto that kindly Father's care,
Who look'd and heard from Heaven.

And angels came, with silent dew,
Her throbbing brow to lave;
And gentle sleep her spirits steep'd,
Within the Lethean wave.

But with the sun's first golden beams,
She left her lowly bed;
And with her gentle boy, went forth
To seek their daily bread.

Small was the pittance that was giv'n,
By cringing, sordid wealth;
But, with firm confidence in Heav'n,
And thankful for her health,

She took again her weary task,
Through all the lonely day,
Nor sought again her lowly bed,
Till morning dawn'd with gray.

So years pass'd by, the boy grew on
In beauty, day by day;
The mother felt her faithful son
Would all her care repay.

And manhood came, with daring high,
And brought a sweet relief;
Plenty for want, and ease for toil,
And joy for all her grief.

Picture No. III.

Again it was the Noon of Night,
The full orb'd moon her car rolled high,
And fringed with gems of silver light
The azure curtains of the sky.

And all the glittering host of stars,
Stood marshall'd in their bright array,
While, far across the concave blue,
Lay stretched the spangled milky way.

And earth all beautiful and fair,
Lay tranquil as a sleeping child
Beneath a watchful parent's care;
While guardian Heav'n looked down and smiled.

The trees all bathed in tears of Night,
Seemed deck'd with gems of Ophir's gold,
And lilies, in pure vestal white
Their spotless fragrant leaves unfold.

In gentlest breath the night-winds sigh,
While fleecy clouds like Angel's wings,
Light sailing o'er the azure sky,
Their shadows cast o'er earthly things.

O who could deem that aught so fair,
So filled with beauty and perfume:
Was but a mighty sepulchre,
A vast, capacious mould'ring tomb?

Or who could deem that mis'ry dwelt
Within a paradise so fair,
That want and pain and woe and guilt
Mingled as sad companions there?

But see where yonder moonbeams creep
In that lone crevice, low and small,
And throws a struggling, sickly beam
Upon the cold, damp dungeon's wall.

See by that feeble, glimm'ring ray,
Low seated on the damp chill ground
A mother sits, whose tearful eye
Is cast in gloomy sadness round.

Beside her lies her only son:
Her lap the pillow for his head.
That son must meet the convict's doom,
When the brief hours of night have fled.

The mother speaks: "Oh see, my son,
Light breaks upon your dungeon wall!
It is a messenger to thee;
Methinks it is thy Saviour's call.

"Dost thou not feel it on thy soul?
And wilt thou not His call obey?
His blood alone can cleanse from sin,
And wash thy guilty stains away."

"Oh, Mother, yes, I feel His power,
E'en as I see yon gentle ray;
His blessed voice now says 'Thoul't be
In Paradise with me this day.'"

Joy filled this waiting mother's heart;
"Let us to God the glory give."
They knelt in humble, grateful prayer,
For Jesus bade that sinner live.

And Angels hov'ring o'er the scene,
Clapped their glad wings and flew to Heav'n
To strike anew their golden harps,
For peace on earth and sin forgiv'n.

And the rapt seraphs round the throne,
Loud anthems to the Saviour raise;
While cherubims with transport burn,
And Heav'ns high dome resounds with praise.

And when the hangman's task was done,
Joy filled the stricken mother's breast.
She felt her dear misguided son,
Through Jesus' blood, had sunk to rest.

And while she linger'd on the earth,
Glory to God was hourly given,
For that mysterious spirit's birth,
That makes the soul an heir of Heav'n.

Picture No. IV.

In agony a mother knelt
Beside her wasted pulseless child;
"Give, oh, give him back to me,"
She cried, in accents stern and wild.

That prayer was heard, the answer came:
The feeble pulse revived again;
And quick the crimson tide of life
Flowed warmly back through every vein.

Yet, though the mother saw the change,
No praise unto her God was given;
No grateful incense from that heart
Ascended up to pitying heaven.

'Twas midnight's deep and silent hour,
When nature folds her hands to sleep,
And Angels come to bathe the flowers,
With dewy tears they only weep.

She heeded not the pulse of time
That throbb'd the moments of the night,
Nor yet the early morning's dawn,
That ting'd the east with rosy light.

But with a mother's earnest eye,
Watch'd o'er her infant's peaceful rest:
Until his gentle slumber passed,
Then clasp'd him fondly to her breast.

Childhood's brief years in sin were spent;
The stubborn knee ne'er bent in prayer;
Those lips ne'er spake a Saviour's name,
"Our Father" never lingered there.

Youth's golden season, too, was passed
In wanton sports and misspent time;
And soon he stood on manhood's verge,
A hardened wretch, prepared for crime.

Though so forbidding in his mein,
He woo'd and won a gentle bride,
Who but the closer to him clung,
As darker rolled life's heaving tide.

But though an Angel shar'd the place,
There were for him no joys at home;
He left his mother and his wife,
Reckless o'er earth or sea to roar.

He stood upon a sanded deck,
With blood-red pennon floating free,
And with a daring bloody band,
Rode madly o'er the foaming sea.

The waves that lashed the coal-black hull
Were parted oft their dead to hide;
For ocean's surging, billowy foam,
Drank deeply of life's crimson tide.

He tossed a pointed dagger high,
And wore a sabre by his side;
And many a gen'rous noble one,
Beneath his powerful arm had died.

For bloody deeds of daring high,
He had won a deathless fame;
And o'er that reckless, bloody crew,
Had gained a pirate-captain's name.

And though their coffers teem'd with gold,
Their sordid souls still sighed for more:
And to procure the paltry trash
They scour'd the seas from shore to shore.

But Retribution's hour must come;
Vengeance cannot always sleep;
Justice, with her glittering sword,
Pursues them swiftly o'er the deep.

At midnight, in a dungeon lone,
An aged female knelt in prayer;
But oh, her low, sepulchral tone
Seemed fraught with anguish and despair.

"My son," she cried, "to morrow's sun
Must witness your disgraceful death;
O, seek a dying Saviour's love,
E'en with your expiring breath.

The sun of Righteousness has risen,
And o'er my path shed golden light,
And shone upon the narrow way,
That ever followed leads aright.

And I have followed to the cross,
On which a dying Saviour hung,
Bemoaned my sins with weeping eyes,
Besought his grace with suppliant tongue.

He witness'd all my sorrowing tears,
And heard my suppliant prayer in Heaven;
Then sweetly spake with cheering voice,
"Daughter, thy sins are all forgiven."

Prostrate in dust before His throne,
My heart's pure worship then I gave;
Sweetly my ransomed spirit sang,
Jesus Christ has power to save."

Then spake the son:--"Talk not to me,
I heeded not weak woman's tears;
But when I sail'd upon the sea,
I quickly silenc'd all their fears.

Free was my trade, my arm was free,
And human blood I freely spilt;
And many an aged breast like thine,
Has sheath'd my dagger to its hilt.

Our blood-red pennon floated free,
Our blood-stained deck its witness gave;
Blood, human blood, was on our hands,
And mingled oft with ocean's wave."

Shudd'ring, the mother cried: "My son,
Though you are steeped in human gore,
There is a fountain filled with blood,
That can your purity restore.

Your Angel wife bath'd in that flood,
And proved a Saviour's promise true,
And when she gently pass'd from earth
She left her dying love for you;

And bade you seek a Saviour's face,
And by His mercy be forgiven,
And by that new and living way,
Seek an inheritance in Heaven."

"Then she is dead," he mournful cried,
"'Tis better thus, for see the sun
With rosy light now streaks the east:
And ere it sets my race is run.

Firm would I stand upon the drop,
Meet firmly my approaching doom;
But death is not an endless sleep,
And justice lives beyond the tomb.

Yet this conviction comes too late;
My soul is lost,--I cannot pray;
Forget your son--forget my fate,
And walk in wisdom's pleasant way."

In agony the mother pressed
To her sad heart her guilty son;
But yet, like incense from that heart,
Sweetly arose, "thy will be done."

No hands were folded on his breast.
They laid him not within the tomb;
The surgeon took him from the drop,
To meet a more disgraceful doom.

And such is life, whose ebb and flow
Heaves the deep sea of human mind;
True happiness they only know,
Whose every wish's to Heaven resigned.

The History of a Household.

Early in the winter of 18--, there was a heavy rain, accompanied by high winds, which swelled the waters of the Sandy river to an amazing height, and every moving thing upon its surface was borne away with the rapidity of lightning. Standing upon its margin was Frank Somers, his eyes fixed with intense interest upon a frail raft that was plunging and heaving among the boiling waves. Upon it stood a man about the middle of life, with an athletic form and a determined expression of countenance, his eyes fixed fiercely upon a brace of logs that had been left reposing on the quiet bosom of the waters, waiting their turn to be sawed into boards. It was a valuable lot, and would bring considerable of an income to the owner, therefore he pursued it over the rapid current, hoping to arrest its course ere it reached the falls. Beside him stood a young boy on the raft, his cheeks blanched to marble whiteness, and his dark eyes fixed imploringly upon his father as they danced along over the furious wave, every bound conveying them so much nearer the falls that thundered on like a mighty cataract, heaving up a cloud of spray, then foaming and dashing off to join the mad waters below. O, it was a fearful sight. On, on went the logs, and on, on went the raft, the reckless man exerting himself to his utmost to stop their progress by endeavoring to reach them with a long pole he held in his hand.

Willie Somers raised his pleading eyes to his face (and many long years after did their expression haunt him), "O Mr. Lambert, please don't go any farther, we shall be over the falls."

"Pshaw, child," answered Mr. Lambert, rather sternly, "I must save my logs at any risk."

The frantic father screamed from the shore,--"Mr. Lambert, save yourselves and let the logs go.

"You are lost, you are lost!" cried many voices, as a log bounded upon a giant wave, leaping over the cataract hurrying on through the waters below. The strong man made a desperate effort and reached the land, but the poor boy upon the raft was precipitated over the falls into the gulf below. As the agonized father stood gazing with breathless horror upon the sight, the form of his dear son arose once more, standing erect upon the bounding billows, with his arms widely extended, and his eyes glaring from their sockets. But in, a moment he was hid from view, beneath the heaving mass of waters. All effort to find him proved unavailing.

The next spring his body was found thirty miles distant down the river, having laid in the water over three months. He was sent to his friends. The father was almost beside himself, although a man slow to anger; but he turned when his son sank from his sight groaning in spirit, and shut himself up in his chamber, not daring to see Mr. Lambert till his wrath was in some degree abated. He secluded himself in his room four days, suffering intensely, and then went forth among men an altered man, for the fearful death of his son had made an impression upon his mind never to be obliterated by time.

He was a man of sorrow, having separated from his family on account of domestic troubles, and this, his only son, was his greatest comfort.

His eldest daughter Matilda, was married to a man in the same neighborhood, and had been a witness of her brother's sudden death. She was young in years, but insidious consumption was sapping the secret springs of life, and that awful sight gave her a shock from which she never recovered. The wretched father soon left that part of the country and journeyed to a far distant southern city, and far, far away in a land of strangers, they made his grave. No dear child was near to wipe the dew of death from his noble brow, or to minister to his necessities, or to close his weary eyes as they cast their sad glances upon a world that had been to him a world of trial.

Matilda gradually failed. She had given her heart with her hand in early youth, to a young man of moderate circumstances, but prudent and industrious; and by these means they procured a comfortable living, and with this they were contented. She united her industry with that of her husband, and her good management gave a neat and almost an elegant appearance to their little cottage home, which peeped out like a bird's nest from the trees that surrounded it. Charles Abbot was a happy man, happy in the consciousness of well doing, happy in the love of his wife, and in the caresses of two little boys, the pledges of their united love.

They had been married six years when the death of the dear brother cast so deep a shadow over their hitherto happy home. Matilda's failing health scarce attracted attention, it was so gradual.

A slight cough, a deeper rose upon the cheek, and a brighter fire in the eye, were almost its only indications. It was a calm evening in the early part of June, as Charles and Matilda sauntered forth to inhale the sweet fragrance of the evening breeze that fanned the leaves of the trees, and wafted the odors of many flowers upon its downy pinions, and rippling the now quiet waters of the Sandy river that lay in peaceful repose, its glassy surface reflecting the mild radiance of the setting sun.

Before them ran their little children in all their sportive gaiety, clapping their hands with joyous glee, as they watched the progress of a little boat that was plying its way across the river, and listening to the boatman's whistle, and the splashing of the oar as it dipped the silver waves. The towering mountains rose high above their heads, and "Father Abraham" looked as though it were about to fall and crush them as they seated themselves at its base, to gaze upon the prospect before them. Charles adjusted Matilda's shawl as she seated herself by his side, with a sharp cough.

He glanced anxiously toward her, but became reassured as the deep crimson upon her cheek and the bright sparkle of her eye met his gaze.

She sat looking pensively towards the river for some time, with her cheek resting upon her husband's shoulder, and occasionally watching the many gambols of her children as they sported at their feet. At length she said: "Charles, how deceitful to me looks the placid bosom of yonder rippling stream, as it reposes in quiet beauty, reminding me of the stream of time, on the ocean of human life when unmoved by the tumultuous storms of passion that so often agitate the human breast, and cause the waves to rise and the billows to swell before the surging storm. Scarce six months have passed since that stream swept by in giant fury, and poor Willie was buried in its angry bosom. O, Charles, do you know I cannot look upon that river without hearing again his last agonizing shriek, and seeing again his pale fearful gaze as he looked death in the face, for well must the dear boy have known that his doom was sealed; and oh, what agony must have filled his breast as he cast his last gaze upon us, imploring our assistance, and yet feeling it would be vain."

"We will leave this place, as it awakens unpleasant memories."

"It is best so," continued she; "Even now the spirit of my dear brother seems hovering over me, whispering of the spirit land. But Charles, I have something to say to you of importance."

The husband looked earnestly and tenderly into the face of his wife, and she continued,

"Perhaps, my dear husband, you are not aware of my failing health, but I feel the necessity of having assistance in my household duties, and have thought perhaps it would be better to send for sister Ellen to come and stay with me a while."

"Certainly, my dear, certainly; I will go after her to-morrow; forgive me, Matilda, that I have not thought of this before, but I think if you are relieved of part of your labor for a while, your health will improve."

The poor wife smiled sadly, and pulling down a stalk laden with buds from an adjacent rose bush that stood waving on a flowery bank beside them, and pointing to a crimson bud enclosed in its casing of green, she said, "Charles, is not that a beautiful bud?"

He looked at it and answered in the affirmative.

"Do you think it will ever bloom?"

"I see no reason why it should not, it looks as promising as any one upon the stem."

"But look a little closer, do you see that little worm gnawing at the very heart and sapping the secret springs of its life?"

Her husband gazed tearfully upon her, and she felt she was understood; and then pressed her to his heart in a passionate, fond embrace, and spoke words of comfort, and of hope and of life.

The wife smiled faintly upon him, and replied:

"Even now there is such a weariness in my limbs that I do not feel as though I scarcely can reach our little cottage home, where we have spent so many happy hours together."

They called their little Frank, who bore his grandfather's name, and Willie, for the youngest was named for her dear brother, and pursued their way silently to the house, each wrapped in their own meditations.

That night, when Mr. Abbot closed his family Bible, and they all knelt together to implore God's mercy, fervent was the supplication that arose from the lips of the husband and father, as he besought grace for every time of need. The heart of the husband was full as he prayed our Father to stay the disease of his dear wife, and earnestly repeated, "if it be possible let this cup pass from me;" but after wrestling long, that peace came that passeth understanding--that peace that the God that heareth prayer bestows upon his children when they bow themselves before Him, and cast their burden upon Him who careth for us, and ere he arose from his knees he was made to say, "Thy will, not mine be done;" and they retired to rest beneath the shadow of the Almighty, and felt that his watchful eye was upon them during the silent hours of the night.

Early the following morning Mr. Abbot started, to go down the river (as was the usual phrase) to Matilda's grandfather's, where Annie and Ellen, the two younger sisters resided, having both left the residence of their mother some time previous. Annie, then eighteen, had the sole management of the family, as her grandmother was very feeble, and unable to assist her at all. She was rather surprised at Mr. Abbot's arrival, and quite alarmed when she heard the import of it. It was immediately settled that Ellen should go with him, and preparation was accordingly made for their departure early the following morning, every thing being attended to by the careful Annie, who supplied the place of mother to the younger sister, who was now about sixteen.

Suffice it to say, the assistance was not productive of the anticipated good; Matilda's health declined rapidly, and it became evident to all who looked upon her, that she was passing away to the spirit land. The struggle in her husband's mind was over, and he felt a pious resignation to the will of God.

Frequently did they converse together upon the joys of the heavenly world, and select such passages of Scripture as are calculated to prepare the soul for its upward flight.

"O Charles," said Matilda, one beautiful autumn day, as the yellow sun shed his mild radiance over the decaying face of nature, "support me by your strong arm while we pass through the garden to the river by the nearest way. I feel quite refreshed to-day, and would look once more upon that restless stream that is ever hurrying on 'to meet old Ocean.'"

He placed his arm lovingly round her waist, and almost bore her to the spot, scarcely feeling her weight, so fragile had she become. Frank and Willie accompanied them with their happy countenances and glad voices, and plucking a bunch of fading flowers, presented them to their mother.

She watched them with a tranquil smile, and rewarded them with a kiss as she took the proffered boquet from the uplifted hands of her dear children. Frank was a noble boy, with dark brown hair and coal black eyes, inheriting his mother's beauty. Willie was a feeble child, with hair of lighter brown and eyes of azure blue, that betrayed a noble soul in their very depths.

The mother called him to her, and taking his little hand in hers, pressed them lightly to her forehead and then to her lips: looked earnestly into his eyes as though she would penetrate their very depths, then tenderly said:

"Willie, we are very near to heaven here; it is the music of angels that whispers through the waving trees, and it is the motion of their wings that sways their branches so gently. O Willie, will you meet me in heaven?"

"Frank, come and kiss me; we are very near heaven; will you too meet your mother there? Charles, it does not make me sad now to see the place where dear brother Willie passed over the falls. It looks pleasant now, so near heaven, and his gentle spirit says, 'sweet sister, come;' surely the things of earth are passing away. Charles, the dear boys will comfort you when I am gone, and perchance my spirit may meet with yours in sweet communings, and soon we shall meet in heaven to spend an eternity together. Charles, pray in this beautiful place. O, those towering mountains apeak the majesty of their Creator."

"Ellen, dear, 'remember your Creator in the days of your youth;' and oh Charles, pray that we all may meet in heaven."

He knelt and offered up the prayer of faith, but while he concluded, there was a pressure of the hand he held in his, the white lips parted, the head fell heavily upon his shoulder; there was a faint whisper "Jesus, receive my spirit," and the mother was an Angel.

The boys were overcome with grief. Charles and Ellen too, were awestruck.

He bore his lovely burden back to the house and wrapped her in the habiliments of the grave.

It was a mournful day in autumn, when a sad procession bore her to her last resting place, and laid her down by the side of her much lamented brother. The appropriate text, "He that believeth on me shall never die," comforted the grief-stricken mourners. She passed away early in life, ere the sun of twenty-four summers had shone upon her pathway.

Charles mourned his loss, but not as one without hope. And as he turned from the grave to his home and crushed the blighted leaves of autumn beneath his feet, he felt that he too, was passing over withered hopes back to the battle field of human life.

He cast one long, lingering glance upon Matilda's grave, then looked fervently to heaven, and pressed on to "life and to duty with undismayed heart."

Ellen soon returned to her grand-parents, and a sister of Mr. Abbot, losing her husband about the same time his wife died, came to reside with him, and thus the husband and children were provided for; and although the shadow of a great grief rested upon them, and there was a vacancy in their household, they learned to be happy in the present good, and by living so as to join the dear departed ones in a happier world.

It was again June--mild, lovely June. The air was filled with the sweet music of the birds that carolled their evening lay, and seemed pouring forth a sweet song of gratitude to Heaven, for that delightful day. Gentle breezes sighed through the leafy trees soft as the first whispering of young love, giving them a trembling motion, like a bashful maiden as she blushingly listens to it. Beautiful looked the little village of W----, as the setting sun cast his slanting rays upon it, tinging the leaves with deeper green, and burnishing the little stream with gems of sparkling gold. The tall lilac bushes were filled with large red and white blossoms, and as they slightly nodded their graceful heads before the passing zephyr, might have been fancied to be giving a cold greeting to some humbler flower that grew by their side.

In a large, square, old fashioned house, encircled by a neat white fence, which separated it from the street, might be seen a young girl, occupied in what New England housewives would call setting the house in order, and very carefully are all things arranged, the crockery being nicely washed and wiped to a shining brightness, stands neatly arranged in their proper places, on shelves scoured to a snowy whiteness. The floor is nicely swept, every chair carefully dusted, and set back in its proper place, and the broom and the brush hung back upon their accustomed nail. The young mistress stood looking round the apartment with the air of one who feels they have accomplished well the designated task, when she started upon hearing her own name called, and in a moment Edward Merton stood by her side.

"Annie, come, Annie, just don your sun-bonnet, and walk with us to the Island."

Suiting the action to the word, he placed her bonnet upon her head, and drew her willing arm in his, and they soon joined the group of gay companions that stood chatting and laughing at the door. Well did the sable dress that Annie wore become her fine complexion, for the rose blended with the lily upon her cheek, and beauty sat triumphant upon her ruby lips and sparkled in her dark flashing eyes. But recent events had cast an expression of melancholy over her countenance, which for a moment had a sobering influence over her young companions when she joined them.

Edward and Annie lingered a little behind the rest, talking of their future prospects, and of the coming separation, as Edward was soon to leave for Boston, where a more desirable situation was offered him than could be obtained in the village.

"My increased income, my dear Annie, will enable me the sooner to claim you for my bride; true, the separation will be painful, but I am determined never to marry till I can commence house-keeping genteelly."

She looked earnestly in his face and said, "Edward, it is home where the heart is, and it seems to me we should not spurn a present for a future good. This life is short and uncertain, and I feel a gloomy foreboding when I think of your departure, I have been so accustomed to seeing you every day, to leaning on your arm in every walk, and going so constantly with you everywhere, that I shall miss you sadly when you are away; but," she continued, smiling through her tears, "I suppose I must turn nun" and live in seclusion during your absence?"

"O, do not do that," he replied, smiling; "It will be but for a short time, and it is said, 'absence lends enchantment to the view.'"

"O, dear," cried Melinda, a blue eyed beauty, leaning confidently upon the arm of Theodore Stanley, "I should think Ed and Ann were saying their parting adieus, they look so sad."

Upon this the eyes of the whole group were turned upon them, and affecting a gaiety they did not feel, they soon hastened forward and joined in the general conversation till they came to the place of their destination.

What was called the Island, was a point of land in the edge of a large pond, or lake it might be called, as it was six miles long and three or four wide. It was separated from the main land in low water, by a small stream that was crossed by a large stone placed in the centre, for a stepping stone; but in high water it could be reached only with boats.

The little party crossed this stream, and seated themselves upon the grassy knolls, beneath the giant oaks that spread their huge branches around them, for they were the growth of centuries. Loud came the chorus of the feathered tribe, as they sang their evening hymns before retiring to their nests, which were very abundant in that shady retreat, which afforded them protection from the truant school boys.

Annie reclined against the trunk of one of the largest trees, seated by Edward's side, when suddenly looking up, she said,

"O, Edward, let me have your knife."

He reached it to her, and she immediately commenced carving his name in the tough bark of the tree, against which she was leaning.

Many followed her example, and many fairy fingers were busy carving the names of their favorite friend upon the trunks of the aged trees that surrounded them.

"I shall cut it deep," said Annie, "so that it will live forever; and I hope there will be neither mould nor moss upon it, to hide it from view, as I shall love to come and look upon when you are far away."

"Ann," said one, "we will come here in the long summer days, and weave chaplets of the bright leaves of the old oak, and twine them round our lord's name."

This occupied their time till the shadows of evening fell around them, and it was dark when they reached their homes.

It was midnight--dark, dreary midnight. Black clouds hung in huge, portentous masses over, the vault of heaven. The forky lightning flashed, and the deep toned thunder reverberated peal on peal, while the shrieking winds rocked the tree tops, and poured their wild melody upon the ear. It was nature arrayed in awful sublimity, displaying the majesty of God.

Seated on a low chair, in the simple little parlor of Annie, sat Edward, with a pillow upon his breast, supporting the head of the poor girl, whose breathing was laborious, and her cheeks flushed with an unusual glow, as she leaned against him for support. This was the only situation in which she could breathe, as there was an abscess forming in her throat. Her physician said she must sit bending forward, as there was great danger of its producing strangulation, should it break when she was in any other position, which he thought probably it might do before morning. Edward, therefore, could not think of leaving her; but kept his patient watch by her side during the night, alleviating her sufferings by every means in his power, speaking tender words of constancy and love, and picturing long years of connubial felicity after he had won a fortune in the distant city.

Suddenly there came a brighter flash, a deeper crash, and it seemed for the moment that the house was immersed in a lurid glare of light. Annie, screaming, started to her feet, then fell back, fainting, and black in the face with suffocation.

Edward thought, as he caught her falling form, that all was over; but after a short struggle she recovered, and the crisis of her disease had past, and she could now breathe easier than she done for several days.

She had taken cold during their stay on the Island, and had been sick from that time. The storm had spent its fury, and the clouds had passed away, leaving the blue canopy of heaven studded with golden stars, and all nature was refreshed by the rain that had fallen during the shower.

Annie dropped into a sweet slumber, the first that had visited her eyes for several nights; and Edward revolved many things in his mind, as he held her to his heart. Would she remain constant during his absence, and meet him with the same affectionate greeting? What would be the changes that would take place in that time? for he felt there must be changes. And, last of all, would his feelings be the same towards her? truly, of this there was no doubt--was she not his own sweet Annie, who for three years had been his affianced bride, and, surely, there could be no change in him. But Edward Merton had not then explored all the secret chambers of his own heart, and realized not that it was an unwarranted ambition that, even then, was urging him to leave the object of his affection, postpone his projected marriage, and leave the friends of his youth where competence rewarded his toil, for the purpose of acquiring wealth in a land of strangers. The golden sun gemmed the drops of the previous night with the diamond's lustre, and the voice of active life awoke in the village, ere Annie awoke from her slumber, exclaiming,

"Why, Edward, is it possible I have slept so late? but wearied nature was quite exhausted."

"You look finely refreshed," said he, giving her the parting kiss; "but I must away to my shop."

Annie recovered rapidly, and soon the time came for Edward's departure.

He could only speak of the future, seeming to think little of the past or present.

"I shall write to you often, Annie, and you are mine till death do us part, just as much as though Parson Bates had told us so."

A faint smile rested for a moment upon the lip of Annie--then faded away, leaving a sadder expression than before. There was a melancholy foreboding at her heart, and she at least did not feel willing to sacrifice present happiness for future wealth; and she feared the ambition of Edward would not be easily satisfied. But she strove to subdue the feeling, and when their lips united in the parting kiss, a pang shot though her heart, and "it is his last kiss," passed involuntarily through her thoughts.

She turned hastily away to wipe the tears from her eyes, and bury her grief in her own bosom.

Edward, after a prosperous journey, arrived safely at his place of destination, was settled in a lucrative business, even exceeding his most sanguine expectations, and was constant in his promise of writing to Annie.

When winter returned with his winds, the aged grandfather was stricken down by death. He fell like a sturdy oak before the stroke of the destroyer, for he too had buffetted many a winter's storm, having lived beyond the age of man. They bore him to his grave, when the winds of winter blew fiercely round, and the drifting snow almost obstructed their passage to the grave yard. He was deposited in the place alotted him, and left to his repose, with the bleak winds of winter pelting fiercely upon his grave. He heeded them not--that weary sleeper, tired of looking upon the world, with all its changes.

Capt. Somers settled in that country before the woodman's axe had felled the forest trees; and when they must pursue their way to Gardiner by spotted trees, and frequently did herds of Indians wrapped in their blankets, call at their door and exchange the moose meat which they had dried, for beef, bread and other eatables.

These were times that tried men's souls, for during the war they were frequently alarmed by hearing that unfriendly Indians were coming upon them, which would fill the early settlers with dismay. So it might well be said, as they laid the aged man to rest, he had seen changes, for truly, had he seen "the wilderness made to bud and blossom like the rose," and the temple of the living God supplying the place of the Indian's wigwam.

The grandson, who had come in possession of the property, decided to break up house-keeping, and placing his grandmother in the family of a son, soon accomplished his purpose, leaving Annie and Ellen to look out for themselves. Ellen went to reside with her mother, who had erected a little cottage in a distant village.

This was a severe trial to Annie; she scarcely knew what course to pursue; but, procuring board with an intimate friend, she entered a cotton factory with a number of her young friends, thinking that would be a respectable, and an easy way of obtaining her livelihood.

She wrote an affectionate letter to Edward, informing him of the change in her circumstances and her present occupation, saying she did not think the occupation would diminish her worth, or tarnish her good name.

He answered it by requesting her to leave her employment, and offering to pay her board if she would do so; but she preferred being independent, and thought she would remain and earn what she could to help herself; and there the matter dropped, she working on two weary years. Often did she visit the Island, gaze upon the name of Edward, and recall the scenes of that and many other evenings.

Many of the companions of that evening had united their destinies for life--many had left the village, and some had closed their eyes forever upon the things of earth, and entered upon the untried scenes of eternity.