Chapter IV: The Grave Yard (3)

He gave her an opiate, hoping to relieve the distress.

Towards midnight she dropped into a little slumber, and the mother, weary with watching, retired, leaving the father and a sister, to take care of her.

It was Sabbath morning; the gray dawn was just streaking the east with the earliest beams of day, when the father, who sat a little distance from his child, thought he saw her gasp for breath. He sprang to her side, and saw too truly, that that pale visitant from the spirit land, that comes to us but once, was dealing with his child. The mother and grandmother, who had watched over her so unweariedly, soon reached the bed; but the brittle thread of life was snapped, and the pure spirit had passed away, with the pale messenger, to the spirit land. There were no loud lamentations. The mother pressed her cheeks between her hands, exclaiming,

"Oh, Emma."

Then taking her little pulseless hand in her own, seated herself beside her on the bed, calm and tearless.

The father, with his face buried in his hands, sat motionless; but no murmur escaped his lips. He had learned submission to the divine will, and was comforted in his hour of need.

And brighter, and brighter grew the beams of that holy Sabbath day. That day the dear child had loved so well. She had loved to enter the earthly temple, and join in the hymns of thanksgiving and praise that arose, like sweet incense, upon their sacred altars. And now, with the early dawning of that sacred day, she had passed forever from earth, to join the pure throng of worshippers before the throne of God. The smile of heaven was upon her face, as though the light of the happy spirit still irradiated it.

Loving hands placed her gently in the shroud and prepared her for the tomb.

As that quiet twilight hour came on, who can picture the agony of the bereaved mother's heart? She stole softly into the chamber of death, and taking the little cold waxen hand in hers, bent fondly over, and kissed the marble forehead. It was their favorite hour--the one they ever spent together, and those blue eyes were ever then fixed upon her, as she read the word of God, repeated infantile hymns, or murmured the evening prayer. But now those dear eyes were forever shut on earth, but open to the more exalted beauties of heaven.

As she recalled the past, in that solemn place, she weighed well her conduct towards her child, and asked herself if there had been aught to tarnish the purity of that spirit that had just entered the portals of heaven; and earnestly did she beseech her Heavenly Father to forgive all that was amiss, and cleanse her from all sin, that she might be prepared for a reunion in a better world.

It was autumn, when little Mary was placed in the tomb, and all things spoke of death and decay. It was now the last days of spring, when the trees had put on their robes of deeper green, and all nature spoke of a resurrection from the dead, when her little coffin was taken from the tomb and placed in the hearse, to be buried in the same grave with her cousin Emma. Emma lay beautiful in death, looking almost like a thing of life, with a smile still lingering upon her lips, while fresh half-blown flowers were placed in her icy fingers, and strewed around the coffin, soon to wither and fade, with that frail child of clay. Mary had decayed with the pure buds she held in her hands, and "dust thou art and unto dust thou must return," was legibly written on both.

The same mourning circle convened, and bore their loved ones to the place of graves. The sisters stood side by side, as the coffins were let down into the earth, and mingled their tears together. It was a melancholy sight, and spoke loudly of the uncertainty of human life.

The man of hoary hairs stood over the graves of the tender infant, and felt sensibly, that while the "young may die, the old must die."

The parents cast a long lingering look into the greedy grave that was forever to hide their treasure from their sight, then turned sadly away to walk again the pathway of human life, and receive the portion their heavenly Father may see fit to meet out to them.

Sweet is their place of rest. A weeping willow droops over their grave, and the flowers of summer shed their perfume and scatter their leaves around. Night winds sigh a mournful requiem, and gentle zephyrs fan the leaves of the weeping willow, and murmur among its branches.. Two white marble slabs stand at the head of the little heaped up mound, and point to the traveller's eye the place where rest the remains of the angel cousins.

Lines, Written at the Close of 1842.

Hark! I hear the midnight bell,
Pealing forth its funeral knell;
Now its tones sound loud and clear--
Now low and dirge-like, strike the ear,
Solemn and slow, they seem to fall,
Upon the listening ear of all.

And lo! extended on the 'bier,
The form of the departed year
Closely wrapt, in snowy shroud,
Hastening to join the sable crowd
Of years--that passed before the flood,
And left their pathway stained with blood;
For oh, what horrors must appear,
Written on each departed year?
The fearful tales each will disclose,
The God of Heaven only knows.

Ardent and bright this year arose,--
Pictured its joys and hid its woes,
Painted gay paths bestrown with flowers,
And balmy skies, and sunny hours,
Promised some pleasures, ever new,
If pleasures' path we would pursue.
But soon the path became uptorn,
Instead of flowers we find the thorn:
And yonder sky, so blue and deep,
Where golden stars their vigils keep,--
Was soon by frowning clouds concealed;
And lightnings flash'd, and thunders peal'd
The golden sun soon sank to rest,
Behind the curtains of the west,
And left to darkness his domain,
With midnight howling o'er the plain;
And those who followed her gay train,
Found pleasure's path to end in pain.

For who e'er drank without alloy,
From the painted cup of joy?
Just as we seize some radiant prize,
That long has danc'd before our eyes,
And raise the goblet to our lip,
Its honied promises to sip.
Some lurking scorpion's venom'd dart
Sends poison rankling to the heart.
But now the year its race has run,
Its promises and labors done;
The grave has closed o'er its remains,
'Till the last trumpet breaks its chains;
Then must its mysteries be unroll'd,
And all its hidden deeds be told.

How many hail'd last New Year's day,
That slumber now in fellow clay.
This too, perhaps, may be our doom
Before another year shall come.

The things of earth may fade away,
And we be turned to lifeless clay;
The roving eye forget the light,
And dreamless sleep in death's dark night.
The pallid lips may cease to speak:
The coffin worm feed on the cheek;
The grassy turf o'er us be spread,
While earth's cold lap supports the head:
And heav'ns own dews the hillock lave,
And night winds sigh around our grave.

That narrow house may be our home,
Whose only mark is one grey stone.
But Christ by entering in the tomb,
Has dissipated all its gloom,
And shed a bright, benignant ray,
That opens on eternal day;
And those that sleep in His embrace,
Among the just shall find a place.

Lines, on the New Year, 1853.

Hark! I hear the clarion shrill
Winding up the icy hill,
And aloud the bugle horn
Proclaims another year is born.
Merry voices in the train,
Loudly sound it o'er the plain,
And the joyful notes I hear,
Are wishes for a happy year.

All come with faces bright and gay.
None seem to think of yesterday;
None seem to hear the passing bell,
That bade the dying year farewell.
None seem to think this infant year,
Which now so gay and bright appears,
Will soon by dark oblivion's wave
Be chas'd into the silent grave.

But all seem forming airy dreams
On future hopes and future schemes,
Though other years have prov'd untrue:
It will not be so with the new.

Joy beams upon the face of all;
Some meet within the festive hall,
Where music trills her gayest note;
And fairy forms in circles float,
And all seem feasting with delight
Upon the pleasures of the night,
None thinks upon the grief or pain,
That soon must follow in their train,--
The coffin shroud, and death's cold pall,
That must so soon be flung o'er all;
But yet, in that gay circle there,
We can detect corroding care,
Can plainly see, in sparkling eyes,
Sorrow, clad in gay disguise,--
Trying happy to appear,
To usher in another year.

Tis ever thus, the heedless throng,
That meet in revelry and song,--
Must ever feel within the breast
An aching void; while those possessed
Of pure Religion, may enjoy
Joys nothing earthly can destroy

The Unhappy Marriage.

"Hannah, it will not do," said Captain Currier to his eldest daughter, a neat, quiet looking girl about eighteen, who sat sewing by a window. "I say Hannah," continued he sternly, as her eyes met his, "it will never do for you to throw yourself away upon that miserable scapegrace that has visited you so often of late."

The blood mounted in torrents to her cheeks as she replied,

"Why, father, you surely cannot mean William Lawrence?"

"And who else should I mean? He is not worth a single iota, and what is more, he is never like to be."

"True, he is not rich, but he is industrious, and with his excellent habits I have no fears on that account."

"Oh, you have not, have you," said her father, almost fiercely, "but I tell you Miss, it will never do, so you may think the matter over at your leisure, and settle the affair, I hope, without any farther interference on my part."

She raised her eyes timidly to her father's and said,

"I think, sir, you will be obliged to finish the work if it is ever done; my faith is plighted to William, and you know, father, I cannot break my word."

This candid avowal but added "fuel to the flame" of the enraged father, and he sternly said,

"My commands are upon you, and I expect you to obey me."

"But father," began the trembling girl,

"There is no but in the case. But I will leave you now, for I see your milk and water looking gentleman is coming, and I expect, Hannah, it will be the last time his shadow will ever darken my doors."

As he passed out at one door the young man entered at the opposite, and fixed his handsome eyes, with a searching glance, upon Hannah, as he gave her his cordial greeting, saying,

"Are you ill?"

"O no, William, I am not ill, but let us walk out into the garden; perhaps the cool winds of heaven will cool the fever upon my brow."

And so they wandered forth among the flowers, to breathe the air that comes alike to the children of affluence and pinching want. They reached a seat where they had spent many happy hours, over which climbing honeysuckles shed their perfume, and many bright flowers danced in the wind, or drank the pure dews of night as the pitying angel wept upon their bosoms. Hannah was upon her accustomed seat, and the eyes of her lover were fixed upon her with that fond expression she so well understood, and which found a ready response in her youthful heart. Now that heart was almost bursting with its agony of grief; but William was beside her, whispered words of tenderness and hope were murmured in her ear, and how could she break the spell? how could she speak of the gathering storm? The commands of a stern father were upon her, and she knew his indomitable spirit would never swerve one inch from his determination.

They sat till the family clock struck nine ere Hannah could muster courage to announce her father's decision, and related the conversation that had just occurred. William was perfectly astonished, as he replied,

"You certainly cannot yield to his commands? Hannah, the happiness of my life depends upon our union."

"Well, we will keep quiet a while and see what further light we can get upon the subject. I have a fearful foreboding that the haughty, stern looking stranger who has been here so much of late, has something to do with it. He has been officious in his attention to me, and I have trembled when I have seen his savage eyes fixed upon, me with such a peculiar expression. And so we will be quiet and wait the moving of the waters."

The following afternoon Captain Currier called his daughter into the parlor, and closing the door, said abruptly,

"Well, Hannah, I 'spose you have squared up accounts with William, and are now ready to enter a new firm. There is a noble chance for you my gal. The rich Mr. Benson has offered his hand to you in marriage."

"Impossible! Why, father, is not he an Indian?"

"No more of an Indian than you are; to be sure he is not quite as white as your milk and water Billy."

"I should think he was milk and molasses, at least, and the largest part molasses, but without its sweetness."

"Well, be that as it may, I'm thinking his thousands will make the dose quite palatable at any rate. You must know, Miss, my affairs at present are in an embarrassed state, and he proposes taking that large tract of land adjoining mine, and giving me a generous price upon it, provided you will become his wife. He is going to lay out the ground like a garden, build a princely mansion, and you are to be its mistress."

"O father, would you have me fall down and worship the golden calf?"

"But you must obey me; I cannot, I must not be frustrated in this arrangement."

"But why, father, cannot you and he complete your bargain without sacrificing my happiness on the shrine of Mammon?"

"No, he will leave the country immediately unless you consent to marry him, and this, with my other property, is mortgaged, and cannot be redeemed, and beggary stares me in the face. This step, and this only, can save me. I told William the arrangement as he was marching hurriedly away this morning with Colonel Somer's regiment, who were ordered to reach the eastern border of the State as quick as possible, as they fear an attack from the French and Indians in that quarter. Mr. Benson is eager to have the marriage take place as soon as possible."

Hannah sat like one in a dream for a moment, when she said,

"Father, has nature no voice to plead for me?"

"Child, it is your good I am seeking. How can you ever expect happiness with William? It takes all he can earn to support his sick mother, and let me tell you your chance will be a small one. Mr. Benson's pockets are lined with gold, and he rides the best horse that the country can produce; and let me tell you, your love, as you call it, never yet put anything into the pot or kept it boiling, and it is well said, 'when poverty stalks in at the door love creeps out at the key hole.'"

"Well, father," said Hannah, rising up at her full height, "if I am any judge in the case, that man is unprincipled, remorseless, and a villian."

"I think you are no judge. What can you know about it?

"Well, you chose to put the business in my hands, and I have arranged it to my own liking. Now you must be prepared by one week from this day to become Mrs. Benson."

So saying he left the room, to bluster about Capulet like, to hurry the coming event.

It was soon known by every member of the family, that great preparations were expected for the coming wedding. Deeds were drawn up, the land transferred into the hands of Mr. Benson at an extravagant price, a large house erected upon it, and many carpenters employed to finish one room, and a bed-room, so that they could occupy it till the rest could be completed.

And so the shuttle was played to weave the woof into the meshy warp that had thus been spread.

Hannah wept long after her father left her. She felt convinced it was through his means William was pressed to go with Colonel Somers, and her heart rebelled against his tyranny; and nothing would have induced her to yield but her father's assurance that that alone could save him from beggary. And she felt she would make the sacrifice for her father's sake.

As she entered the kitchen, Sarah, the black slave, met her with,

"Why, Miss Hanner, 'pears to me I should not like to swap Mr. Lawrence for Mr. Benson; 'pears he aint haff so perticler like."

"It is my father's wish, and I suppose it must be complied with," and she passed out of the room to bury her feelings in her own bosom, and nerve herself for the coming trial.

"Massa is doing good business, Sambo," said Sarah to a black man that sat preparing some peas to plant, "he selling tu gals at once."

"Yes, yes; but I guess Miss Hanner hab no choice," and he rolled up the whites of his eyes, and fetched a pompous nod of the head, as he glanced at his sable companion.

"That does make some differ; now tree year don't seem bery long when we bese so much wid one tother."

"The tree year most out now, white man buy his gal wid gold; but poor nigger hab to work hard for his'n. Well, we be free then."

The conversation was closed by Capt. Currier's sharp voice calling Sambo to bring the peas. He hastily obeyed the summons, as he did so displaying by his open smile his ivory teeth to Sarah, who returned the compliment in a very satisfactory manner.

All was bustle, stir, and preparation during the week. Dress makers, milliners, and almost all classes of people were called into requisition.

Mr. Benson strove hard to play the agreeable; but Hannah could scarcely endure him. And the week passed away, as all weeks will pass, whether laden with joy or sorrow; and the pale bride stood trembling by the altar of Hymen, and the solemn words were passed that united the destinies of two immortal spirits, and the recording angel registered them in heaven.

After partaking of a sumptuous dinner, according to the custom of those days, they entered a splendid carriage Mr. Benson had purchased for the occasion, and with Sambo for a driver and Sarah for a waiting maid, set out upon their wedding tour. But we will not accompany them.

Suffice it to say, it was productive of little happiness to the new married pair. Sambo and Sarah enjoyed it very well, as she often rode with him upon the driver's box, and they thus had a delightful view of the country.

On their return, their house was ready for their reception, or at least so that they could live in it while the other part was finished.

Hannah had frequently been surprised by her husband's frequent potations of brandy during their journey, and his whole bearing had been haughty and reserved.

They had been at home but a short time, when, after being absent one night and day, Mr. Benson returned home with a dark frown resting upon his countenance; he slammed the door, kicked every chair that came in his way, and stamping about, went and dismissed all his hands, took another dram from his brandy bottle, and sat moodily down by the fire, grumbling because supper was not on the table.

Poor Hannah pressed her hand upon her throbbing heart, and struggled with the tears that rose to her eyes and seemed scalding her very eye balls with their burning heat. There was a choking sensation in her throat, but she swallowed it back, and prepared supper in the best manner she was capable. Her husband seated himself at the table, took a biscuit, looked at it, flung it back upon the plate, called his tea dish water, and throwing back his chair hastily, left the table.

But why dwell upon the sorrowful years they spent together? He ever came like a dark shadow upon the sunlight of home. Children gathered around their fire side, but there was no gentle corner for them in his heart.

His only son was ever with him like his shadow, drinking in his precepts, practising his examples, breathing his oaths, domineering over his mother and sisters, and a terror to the neighborhood.

His father telling him, he was in hopes to see the time he would dance on Dr. Somers' grave, as he hated him with a perfect hatred, because he had been his wife's attending physician, when she had been sick during the years they had lived together.

James, for such was the name of the son, was instructed to hate everybody that came in his way, and, of course, was hated by every one.

The money that came by gambling, went in the same way, and poverty--abject poverty--was now an inmate of their dwelling.

The house remained unfinished; the frame, which had never been clap-boarded, had gone to decay in a great measure; and when one meal was obtained, they scarcely knew where another would come from.

Discord reigned among them. Hannah was a wreck of her former self. She had strung up her patience to its utmost tension, and would often bear the scorn and abuse of her husband in sorrowful silence.

But this state of things passed away, and when her children shared in her sufferings, the bitter waters were stirred in their deep fountains, and she became a worn woman, with a hasty spirit. The biting retort was now often upon her lips, and she became in a true sense of the word, what might well be called a scold.

One gloomy fall day, when the sighing winds shook the mellow apples from the trees in the large thrifty orchard, that stood before the house, casting so deep a shade that the rays of the sun could scarcely penetrate it, and the old house looked blacker for the rain that had fallen upon it, Mr. Benson was seized for debt, and, conveyed to jail.

During his absence Mrs. Benson purchased some apples of the man that then owned the orchard, and dried them, hoping to obtain some needful clothing for herself and children. She cleaned her ceiling, whitewashed the plastering, and made everything about the house look as comfortable as possible, and enjoyed the privilege, at least, of doing as she pleased, without being found fault with, which was to her a great luxury, as her expressed wishes were generally vetoed at once.

She was a true mother, and strove to bring her children up in the paths of truth and honesty. But there was such an opposing current, and such frequent bickerings between herself and husband, that they caught the infection, and seemed to live only to torment each other.

"O," said Mrs. Benson one day, to her sister Sarah, who was spending a, day with her, "this is the princely mansion father promised me, as a reward for giving up all my cherished hopes. Poor William has lost his dear mother, I hear."

"Yes, she died one day last week; she liked much where they lived, and after William came into possession of his uncle's princely fortune, her life was spent in ease and affluence. He is likely to become one of the richest men in the country, and he is loved for his kindness and respected for his virtues. Your marriage doomed him to celibacy."

A shade rested for a moment upon Mrs. Benson's brow, as she said,

"O, these dark brown years have brought no joy to me in their course. How I have lived I scarcely know. How dim-sighted is human reason? The poor William is now the rich man, and the rich Benson is the poor one. Could father know the misery I have undergone, he would think his comforts dearly purchased; but he is gone from earth, and I will not reproache his memory; but, oh, it has been hard--very hard."

"But come, Sarah, come into this old room with me, and help me pack my dried apple for market. Is'nt it nice? I took great pains with it, as I wished it to fetch the first price in the market. I am going to get me a new cheap calico dress. This old patched faded thing is the only one I have.

"I have wove a great deal this fall, and I think what I shall get for that and the apple, will fix the children and me up quite comfortably. The children paid for these apples, by picking up apples for Mr. Lambert, and he says he shall want them again. I don't know as I care much how long Benson stays in jail, for I enjoy myself much better than I did when he was at home, scolding round all the time. And it has made a perfect vixen of me, and I scold almost as bad as he does; and the children catch it, and we have a little bedlam here all the time; O, I wish it were not so, I cannot lie down quietly and sleep at night, and I know something fearful will come of it."

"O, sister, I hope nothing worse than has come. I am glad to hear your prospects look more favorable, and wish it were in my power to help you. If you get a dress I will help you make it, and the children's clothing. But I forgot to tell you Sarah is dead, and Sambo has got a cancer, and it is thought he will survive her but a short time."

"Indeed; well, she was a faithful servant, and has gone to her reward; and poor Sambo, how patiently he toiled, early and late, to purchase her freedom, and they were very happy."

"O, yes, because they loved each other, and there was no one to interfere with them."

They were now startled by hearing Mr. Benson chiding the children in a loud, angry voice, with many oaths, for leaving the gate open, and letting a cow into a small yard of shrivelled, stinted looking cabbages.

The children scampered for the house, with terrified looks, whispering, "father has come," and crouching down in a heap in one corner of the room, remained very quiet; the old cow ran for the street, with Mr. Benson at her heels, storming furiously, and plying a large stick across her back, which he had picked up in his rage.

The sisters placed the large bundle of dried apple in as secure a place as possible, and returned to the kitchen.

The door was burst violently open, and Mr. Benson entered the room, exclaiming, as he did so,

"What in thunder is going on here?"

And he proceeded to disarrange chairs, tables and everything that came in his way, till the house was all in confusion. He went to the cupboard, that stood in the corner of the room, to get a large jug he used to keep brandy in, in his better days, but which now was often filled with New England rum. Not finding it, he almost screamed,

"Hannah, you Jezebel, where is my jug?"

"I thought I would sell it, as you were boarding out."

"Woman," shouted he, "that shall be a dear jug to you."

"It has been that already."

The enraged husband cast at her the look of a fiend, and passed on to the adjoining room, which was calculated to be an elegant parlor when the house was raised, but which was now converted into a store room, for old barrels, old baskets, old hats and bonnets, and, in fine, a great variety of old things. In one corner stood a little old bedstead, with an old flock bed, covered with patched sheets and a ragged quilt, where James slept. The loom was in that room and the spinning wheels; an old churn and many other things, too numerous to mention.

Mr. Benson reached up his hand, to take down a large bunch of woolen yarn that hung suspended on a nail. His wife sprang forward, saying, "Do not touch that--it is not mine."

"I don't care whose it is. I must and will have something that will sell."

At that moment, seeing the package of dried apple, he pounced upon it, like a tiger upon its prey, and bore it rapidly away, with the remonstrances of a weeping wife ringing in his ears.

And the traffickers in human souls bought it at a price, paid him in liquid fire, and he returned to his home, more fiend than when he left it. The wife's dress was gone; the comfortable things she hoped to procure for the children were gone. She sat up and toiled late at night--and all for what? To procure that poison for her husband that was contaminating his and her own soul, and cast such a blight upon her home. Was it not enough that their house and land were mortgaged, their horse and carriage gone? but must she toil with her own hands, to satisfy that appetite that cries, "give, give?" As these thoughts passed through Mrs. Benson's mind, she mentally exclaimed,

"O, it is a sad thing to be a drunkard's wife."

A few weeks after she went to an old chest that stood in one corner of the room, to get a piece of woolen goods she had carefully prepared for the market, which would bring her several dollars. She had placed an old band box, quill wheel and some other rubbish upon the chest, to conceal it from view as much as possible. Upon opening it, she discovered her treasure was gone, and she knew too well, for what purpose. The son, too, drank with his father, and got so much the start of him in brutality, that even he cowered before him, thus realizing that "He that soweth the wind shall reap the whirlwind." But those years passed on; the children grew up in their perverseness, a family that feared neither God or man.

No prayer ever ascended, like sweet incense, from those hearts; no hymns of praise fell from those lips; but they daily invoked curses upon each other--and who shall say that the curse causeless came?

The eldest daughter married a miserable drunkard, contrary to the wishes of her father, threatening to fire the house over their heads, if they opposed her in the least. The second daughter lived in disgrace, with a man equally miserable, till the house was demolished over their heads.

The poor heart-broken wife died, and was borne away to the grave. The son became of age, took the homestead from his father by making arrangements to redeem it, and threw his father into the poor house, where he wore out the remainder of his days in wretchedness and misery.

The son, by perseverence, won the hand of an amiable young lady, of an excellent family, and contrary to the expectations of every one, treated her with the greatest kindness the two years he lived with her, attending church with her every Sabbath, and evincing a great change in many other ways.

But the desire of riches urged him, with hundreds of our fellow citizens, to seek the land of gold, and like many of them too, fell a prey to his ambition. He died on shipboard, never reaching the place of his destination.

Dr. Somers died about the same time, and was buried in his own quiet yard, in the little village that had been the theatre of his life. That young form that had been educated for the express purpose of dancing on his grave, was tossing beneath the tumultuous waves of the briny ocean, never to be at rest.

William Lawrence lived, loved and respected and transferred his earthly love to God, giving him his supreme affections, thus living to his honor and his glory while on earth, and meeting death with a calm resignation, sank peacefully down to slumber in the quiet grave.

All the actors in the little drama have sunk beneath the waves of death, (but three daughters and the son's wife,) and the dust of ages is gathering upon them; but their influence still lives and speaks to the generations of men.

The master and the slave are there. The father and the daughter, the husband and the wife, and the parents and the son are there, each one "to answer for himself for the deeds done in the body." Surely, "it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God."

Lines, Written on the Year 1852.

Weary and sad I sit alone,
The storm-god whistles shrill and high,
And piles of sombre clouds are thrown
O'er the blue curtains of the sky.

Mournful I sit, for one by one
Time's golden sands are ebbing fast;
Whispering in low sepulchral tones,
The next, perchance, may be the last.

'Tis midnight's deep and solemn hour,
When visionary forms appear,
And shed their strange, mysterious power
O'er the departure of the year.

The charnel house is opened wide,
And thither's borne with brief adieu,
And slumbering eyes laid beside
Eighteen hundred fifty-two.

Now memory wakes her silent string,
And holds her umpire in the brain;
And brings as she alone can bring,
The image of the past again.

Her golden key, with using bright,
Unlocks the chambers of the soul,
And holds to reason's steady light
The secret records of her scroll.

Back, back she sails, down time's dark stream,
To childhood's bright and sunny hours;
And paints again her fairy dream,
Her sports, her fancies, and her flowers.

Touched by her wand, the sleeping dead
Spring up to active life again:
And in the busy pathway tread,
Mingling in our joy and pain.

She points where many a hope sprang bright,
And plum'd a while her pinions gay:
Then sank in disappointment's night,
And each fair promise died away.

And as I scan her records of the past,
And in succession all their deeds appear,
There's none o'er which so deep a shade is cast
As thine, thou just expiring year.

Thy spring was green, and bright, and gay,
And bloom'd as fair as Eden's bow'rs.
But mil-dew in her sunbeams lay,
And scorpions lurk'd among the flowers.

For when all perfumed seemed thy breath,
And all thy aspect sweet and mild,
It brought contagion, blight and death,
And from us bore a lovely child,

Then Summer came, with ardent glow,--
With burning guns and sultry skies,
Her mantle over Spring to throw,--
Of richer tints and deeper dyes.

Then often, with her fairy train,
Came gnawing Grief and wasting Care,
Sickness, Anxiety and Pain,
Mingling in sad confusion there,

Then Autumn came, with sober mien,
For summer days are always brief;--
And in her pathway soon were seen
The wither'd flow'r, the yellow leaf.

But ere her hollow, chilly breeze,
Scarce spake of nature's sad decay,
Or ting'd the foliage pa the trees,
A gentle brother pass'd away.

Sweet was his passage to the tomb,
Reclining on a Saviour's breast;
He heard the welcome--"Child, come home,"
And enter'd on the promis'd rest.

Then Winter came, with icy breath,
His hoarse winds whistling shrill and loud,
And quickly o'er the frozen earth,
He lightly spread his snowy shroud.

And sorrow, like that snowy pall,
Seemed spread o'er all my prospects bright,
And Health, and Hope, and Joy, and Peace,
Seem verging all to death's dark night.

But hark! I hear a cheering voice,--
And see--those pale, cold lips still move.
Mortal, shrink not; in God rejoice!
He is Wisdom, Power and Love.

'Tis he ordains the rolling year;--
Seasons and changes are his own;
Then, mortal, live in God's own fear;--
One struggle, and the year was gone,

But Peace had stolen o'er my breast;
And as I gazed I shed a tear,--
And grateful for the last behest,
I bless'd the just departed year.

Consumption.

The whirlwind in its fury depopulates a district, or a small tract of land over which it passes perhaps once in a century--the earthquake rumbles through the hidden recesses of the earth, and here and there the yawning cavern swallows the ill-fated inhabitants that dwell upon its surface; the lightning's stroke blasts in a moment, and cuts the threads of life without any warning; and the steam engine destroy their thousands in a year; and the winds and the waves conspire to people the dark caves of ocean with the dead. These, and a thousand other avenues, lead to death, bearing terror in their course, and heralding their approach by terrific sounds.

But there is an insiduous foe, silent in its progress, sapping first the secret springs of life, but yet diffusing hopefulness, ever whispering in syren voice, of coming health and happiness, often adding a deeper crimson to the cheek and a brighter lustre to the eye.

It feeds alike on all; the infant in its innocence; childhood in its playfulness; youth in its beauty; manhood in his usefulness, and old age in its decrepitude. All, all fall alike before the withering breath of consumption.

Glancing back through the long avenue of past years, many a green mound rises by the pathway over the wasted victims of this fearful disease.

First upon memory's list, comes up a smiling infant, of rare beauty and patient mien, that won our love by those little winning ways that are the prerogatives of that tender age. A slight cough and extreme weakness, were the only indications of the fearful work that was progressing within. A bright flush rested upon the lily cheek, and none who looked upon the unwonted brilliancy of those eyes ever could forget their lustre. The pure spirit seemed to look forth from their azure depths. A moan seldom escaped her lips, but she would lay quiet in her little cradle, looking out unmoved upon the business and stir of that life, upon which she had so briefly entered, but where she was to bear so small a part in its fluctuations and concerns.

Anxiously did the fond mother watch over her precious one, and endeavor by a thousand attentions, to strengthen the feeble tenure that held her to life. She was the darling, the youngest one of a numerous family, and all the purest affections of many fond hearts were offered at her shrine.

But could this bribe death? O no, the destroyer stayed not in his course, but drew stealthily along, and aimed his dart secretly but surely, at his victim.

It was a chilly day in early spring; vegetation was just arousing from winter's sleep, and the spring blossoms were just beginning to peep from their casing of green, when this little bud of beauty perished from earth. She lay in the cradle usually, because it wearied her to be held in the lap.

It was noon, when the mother bent over her to administer some nourishment, and thought she perceived a change upon her countenance. The same glad smile rested upon her features, but it was more heavenly in its expression. She seated herself by the cradle, and raised her affectionately in her arms, saying as she did so,

"My dear child, I shall not lay you down again till you look better."

She looked at her a few moments, her blue orbs were turned to heaven, and by their earnest gaze seemed penetrating the glories of the upper world.

There was soon an effort to vomit, succeeded by the fearful death rattle that comes but once in human life. It was the struggle that must come to all, sooner or later. The angel of death was leading this feeble infant through the valley of the shadow of death, by a gentle hand; one little struggle, one gentle sigh, one little quiver of the lip, and the sinless spirit had departed ere the father and brothers, who had been hastily summoned, reached her side.

Beautiful beyond description was the touch of death as it lingered upon that marble brow, and rested upon the beautifully chiselled features of the dear babe.

She was arrayed in a simple white robe, and laid into her cradle, while a sorrowing angel hovered over the household. An absent son returned who had been teaching several miles distant, and among other gifts were some for the little one, but those little eyes were closed, and those little hands that used to be raised with so much fondness, were now stiff and cold in death; but how lovely! Her grave was made in the headland of the garden; a tall lilac stood upon one side of it, and a fragrant rose bush stood upon the other No stone marked the spot, but will she be forgotten on the morning of the resurrection?

Years passed on, many silent years, for we heard no sounds to tell us that time was threading the mazy thoroughfares of human life, stealing noiselessly through our dwellings, and pressing his way with us to the ocean of eternity, hastening on to the period when he shall come to an end, and the great angel shall swear there shall be time no longer. But so it was; years had been borne away by his rapid flight, and laid side by side with those that passed before the flood, and change had come.

Many voices that lisped their matin and their vesper hymns by one hearth stone, were now scattered far and wide, and other homes had sprung up, and the children had become parents, and new duties devolved upon them. Some had passed the meridian of life, the sun of some had reached their noon, while others were climbing up the eastern summit. But as yet death had spared that numerous, household; but now he was watching for his prey. A son who had reached the meridian of life, with fair prospects and an unblemished reputation, was selected.

He had consecrated himself to God, had put on Christ by baptism, and well did he adorn his profession, living a consistent Christian life. But death marked him for his victim.

It were needless now to tell of all the secret underminings of life's hidden springs. He was cheerfully, hopefully looking forward to a long life of usefulness, and striving to attain to greater proficiency in his profession, for he was a physician. But the strength of manhood, integrity of principle, nor Christian virtue could shield him from the stealthy foe that was infusing its poison through the secret avenues of life.

Strength declined, the cough increased, night sweats came on, and one occupation after another had to be relinquished, till he was a confirmed invalid, and when he became next convinced that he must die, the business of his remaining time upon earth was to make preparation for that event.

His countenance ever wore a smile, and he conversed cheerfully with his friends.

He sold his place, which was one he had desired for many years, and which he had recently purchased, anticipating a long life of usefulness in the bosom of his family, which consisted of his wife and one son. But he cheerfully resigned it, and settled all his business as far as was in his power, made the best possible provision for his wife and son, and retired with them to her paternal home to prepare the inner man for the great change that was before him.

His mind was relieved from earthly cares, every thing being arranged as he desired, and he used to say,

"I have 'set my house in order,' and have nothing to do but die."

The things of eternity occupied his entire thoughts; he seldom spoke of his sufferings as being great, but expressed thankfulness that he was passing so easily away. But it appeared different to his friends that looked upon him. He could lay only upon one side for several months before he died, and he had painful ulcers upon several parts of the body, and a constant cough, with laborious breathing and profuse night sweats, accompanied by great emaciation. These were the most prominent features in the fearful disease.

But he would allow no one to remain with him during the night, affirming it was unnecessary for any one to be disturbed, thus spending his restless, weary nights in communion with his Saviour and his God.

He made all the arrangements for his funeral, telling his friends not to weep for him. He hoped as his usefulness on earth was so soon to end, his death might be sanctified so as to be the means of inducing his unconverted friends to seek that preparation of heart that is necessary for entrance into a better life.

He told his wife the manner in which he should probably die, and endeavored to prepare her mind for it. He had distressing turns of suffocation, so that they were obliged to open all the windows and doors for the benefit of the air, and he long expected every turn would be the last.

A few days before his death, his aged mother and a sister visited him. He conversed with them cheerfully upon the arrangements of his funeral; told them he was ready to be offered, and should meet the appointment as cheerfully as ever he met any in his life. He consulted them about the propriety of the hour of the funeral, and some other things in connection with the coming event, as he would were he making preparations for a journey. When the aged mother pressed the hand of her son for the last time on earth, she said with a smile,

"I can only wish the presence of your Saviour, to go with you, and lighten the 'dark valley of the shadow of death.'"

He looked fondly in her face, while a smile of ineffable sweetness beamed upon his countenance. "You could not wish me a better wish, mother."

"I shall soon follow you, my son; I do not think I shall live the winter out," said the mother, as she unclasped her hand from the son's, that she had taken, for the last time.

That mother's hand had been extended, to guide him through the wayward paths of childhood and youth, to strengthen and comfort him, and smooth many rough places in the pathway of manhood; but now it was withdrawn upon the brink of the grave--it could not assist, could not support him; but she committed him to that arm that is mighty to save.

It was a mild day in early autumn, when the pale messenger came to beckon him away. He had tasted of the early autumnal fruits, had drank the delicious juice from her purple grape, and watched the early symptoms of decay that were visible in some withering flower or fading leaf, and felt that "passing away" was legibly written on all earthly things. Once, and once only, he had prayed, "O, my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me, but thy will be done."

He failed fast the last few hours of his life, losing all appetite for nourishment, and having more frequent turns of suffocation, and a sister was sent for. Scarcely had she arrived, when he remarked to his wife that he felt very easy; but as it was time, he would take his medicine. He took out the quantity upon the point of his knife, and after taking it, lay back upon his pillow, apparently asleep. He started suddenly, looked wildly up, and told them he was choking to death. They raised his head, and used their accustomed means to relieve him, but all to no avail. The death dew stood in large drops upon his forehead, and the film gathered over the sparkling eye and shut out the light of earth forever. He stretched out one hand and placed it upon the head of his son, who came hurriedly to his bedside, crying out, in piteous accents,

"O, father, father," and stood sobbing beside him.

This was his only recognition of any one. But the struggle was soon over, and the spirit had burst the barriers that held it to its clay tenement and passed away to a brighter world.

His sun set at noon; but his memory has left a sweet fragrance behind it, grateful to the surviving friends, who are called upon to follow his pious example.

He was borne to the Cemetery, and buried in a spot, which he had selected a few weeks before, in company with his aged mother, by a long train of weeping friends, for he had been very dear to us, and nature would have her tribute, and it filled our hearts with sadness, when we realized that we should see that loved form on earth no more. Yet we rejoiced that he had died in the glorious hope of a blessed immortality, and that we could say, in the impressive language of the text that was chosen for his funeral sermon, "Our friend Lazarus sleepeth." Sweet be thy sleep, dear brother, during the night of death; but the morning will come--the glorious morning of the resurrection--and unlock the portals of the tomb, and the dead shall come forth, the righteous clothed in eternal youth, shall never die, the wicked sinking into the second death that has no end.

Sober autumn perfected his work of decay, and dreary winter spread his snowy shroud over the barren globe, when the aged mother laid down upon the bed of death. Her infant had passed away, in the very dawn of its existence. Her son had sunk down, while his meridian sun was shining in its noonday splendor; but she had lived till the winter of life had scattered its snows upon her head, and was now falling, like a shock of corn, fully ripe. She was ready to be bidden suddenly away, for she was ever watching for the coming of the bridegroom. Consumption had long been preying upon her form, and paving her way to the tomb; but she could look calmly upon the prospect, and contemplate the struggle of death without shrinking from it.

She had long been an humble follower of the meek and lowly Jesus, and his religion diffused its divine light over the most trifling incidents of her life. She ever looked upon the fashions of this world as passing away, and never conformed to them, or the manners of the world; but taking the holy word of God for her example, endeavored to imbibe its precepts, and practice its requirements. In profession of her faith, she united with the Congregational Church, at the early age of nineteen, and at the age of seventy-six years, could look back upon a life spent to the honor and glory of him who had redeemed her with his precious blood. She offered up her children upon the altar of her heart's purest affections, consecrating them to God, by having them publicly dedicated, thus performing what she felt to be an important duty of a Christian mother.

Many an adverse wind had she encountered--that weary voyager on life's troubled sea; but Christ had long been her pilot, and now he was about to moor her frail bark into the haven of peace, and the tumultuous waves were hushed, while the loving Saviour whispered, "Peace, be still."

She could converse but little, and was with difficulty understood; but every word breathed of faith and hope. On the afternoon before her death, she repeated these beautiful lines, and, apparently, felt their import:

"Jesus can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are,
While on his breast I lean my head,
And breathe my life out sweetly there."

She wished to have her robe and cap prepared so that she might see them before her death. She expressed anxiety for her aged companion, to whom she had been united fifty-five years, and who was dangerously sick at the time, and thought he would never recover; but would soon drop into a deep stupor, occasioned by ossification of the brain.

During the night her feet and hands grew cold, and the worn spirit seemed struggling to depart.

She would frequently arouse from her stupor, and speak a word or two to her attendants, saying to one,

"You did not expect me to be found alone now, did you?"

She repeated, "In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were not so I would have told you; I go to prepare a place for you."