Chapter IV: The Grave Yard (5)

Suddenly the stranger chief seized a burning torch, and accompanied by a fierce looking companion, strode hastily toward the house. Dove Eye saw their movements and sprang hurriedly to their side, endeavoring to stop their progress; but they pushed her aside and proceeded. Mrs. Fuller, too, saw them through the small pane of glass that was placed in her board window, and hope almost forsook her. They passed on: the light gleamed through the pane and flickered upon the face of her sleeping infant. She heard distinctly their voices in low, guttural tones, and their heavy tread fell painfully upon her ear. They passed round the corner of the house, and she lost sight and sound of them. She opened the door into an adjoining apartment, and the light burst upon her with such intense brightness that she thought at first they had fired the house. Upon approaching the window, she again discovered them by the wood pile searching for the axe, which they soon raised, and cutting several sticks of wood, bore it away to replenish their fire.

In a short time their dusky forms wrapped in their dirty blankets, were stretched upon the damp ground, with their greasy heads turned towards the fire, and sleep descended upon their weary lids, and silence once more reigned round that forest home.

Dove Eye still reclined upon the rock, watching the moon as it hid its silver beams behind a dark mountain, whose eternal summit lay stretched along the western horizon.

Mrs. Fuller, too, kept anxious watch. She knew from many of them she had nothing to fear; they had often warmed themselves by her fire, had eaten of her bread, and in many ways been partakers of her hospitality, and she knew the Indian never forgets a kindness.

She gently hushed the feeble wailings of her infant, lest it should awaken them to savage rage. She almost resolved to take her children and leave the house while that savage band were weighed down by sleep and intoxication. But she feared it might exasperate them if they found her gone, and so she waited the event, lifting her heart to God in prayer, for he was the refuge of that christian woman, in every hour of trial.

The sun came up at length, and shed his glorious beams over the face of rejoicing nature. The birds sang their matin hymns of praise. The dew drops glittered upon the green grass and tender herbage, and the restless cows lowed, impatient to wander forth at their accustomed hour. The children arose, refreshed by their slumber, and as they looked out upon the dusky sons of the forest, their hearts quaked within them, and stealing silently into a corner, they awaited their fate with pale faces.

Dove Eye stole quietly from the rock, and kindling the almost extinguished fire, hastily prepared their simple morning meal. She took from a deer skin knapsack, which she carried upon her back, a neat white cloth, and repaired to the house of Mrs. Fuller, wishing to exchange some nice dried moose meat for some new milk. Mrs. Fuller hastily milked, and filling a large pail, Dove Eye bore it to their place of rendezvous, and the cows went forth to crop the dewy grass.

She then awoke her husband, and soon the dusky group were partaking of their morning repast, with evident satisfaction, after which they made preparations to depart. They came, one after another, to get their hunting utensils and their implements of war, from Mrs. Fuller, telling her,

"Me no forget white squaw--me bring moose meat for white squaw."

Soon they marched away, in Indian file, and as their dusky forms disappeared, one after another, behind the forest trees, her heart rose in thanksgiving to God, for her preservation. Dove Eye lingered till the rest of her tribe vanished from sight; there was sadness in her countenance, and sadness in her voice, as she said,

"Dove Eye see white squaw no more. Dove Eye go toward the rising sun, but Dove Eye come no more."

Mrs. Fuller pressed her hand affectionately, and commending her to the Great Spirit, she departed to overtake her companions. The children emerged from their hiding places, a cheerful fire burned upon the hearth, and the weary mother prepared the morning meal for herself and her children, with a grateful heart.

When the wandering tribe returned again towards the setting sun, Dove Eye was not with them--she had "gone to the land where her fathers had gone."

Years passed on--years of trial, of anxiety, and of change. The tall forest trees gave place to cultivated fields and blooming orchards.

Roads traversed the vast country in every direction. Numerous villages rose up, on the flourishing banks of the winding Kennebec, and its proud waters bore many a whitened sail upon its surface.

The red men of the forest have passed away, like the withered leaves before the autumnal gale, and the wild bear and deer are now strangers in their secluded haunts.

The young wife and mother passed from the sober matron to mature age, and there were deep furrows upon her cheek, and the frosts of many winters whitened her hair; but when she related the events of that night to her grand-children, or great-grand-children, she ever spoke with trembling voice, and called it the "long fearful night."

On Hearing a Bird Sing,

December, 1826.

Cease, little warbler, cease thy lay,
For summer, with her sunny day,
Far to the south has fled away;
And autumn's chilly finger
Has touch'd the leaf on ev'ry tree,--
And blighted everything we see;
Then, warbler, do not linger.

Fly where groves of citron bloom,
And orange orchards shed perfume,
And birds of ev'ry varied plume
With music charm thee:
Fly, little warbler, quickly fly,
Far, far away to southern sky,
Where nought can harm thee.

For, oh, it is no careless voice--
That bids thee fly and seek for joys,
And shun the rushing whirlwind's noise,
That soon will pass before thee.
But one, whose bosom knows full well,
The heartless scene, the winter spell,
That soon will hover o'er thee.

Variety.

Variety is sweet to me
As many blossoms to the bee;
And I will roam from flower to flower,
Sipping honey ev'ry hour;
I will wander with the bee,
And drink thy sweets, variety.

But if I idly flit away,
All my sunny summer day,
Dancing round from flow'r to flow'r;
What shall grace my winter bow'r?
No, I'll not wander with the bee,
So tempt me not, variety.

But I will prune my myrtle tree,
That in winter green will be,
When other flow'rs are pale and dead:
Their color gone, their beauty fled,
No, I'll not wander with the bee;
So away, variety.

My myrtle then shall be my care,
That's green and fragrant all the year;
I will not spend the fleeting hours
Flitting round more fragrant flow'rs.
I'll not wander with the bee,
So begone, variety.

This in youth should be our care,
To improve for future years;
For if we flit from toy to toy,
Chasing the painted bubble, joy,
No real substance shall we find
To nourish or improve the mind.
Then I'll not wander with the bee
Since it leads to misery.

And youth's fair morn will vanish soon,
And the bright sun grow dim at noon;
Trials will rise along the way,
To cloud the dreary winter day;
Then I'll not wander with the bee,
So farewell, variety.

Henriette Clinton;

Or,

Reverses of Fortune.

At the foot of the Alleghany Mountains stands the flourishing village of Hollidaysburg. On the banks of the blue Juniata, that winds on till it buries its waters in the rolling Susquehannah, stood the elegant mansion of Esquire Clinton, the village lawyer. He had lost his young wife many years since, and Henriette, his only child, shared largely in the affection of her father. Her every wish was gratified, and she was educated in the fashionable etiquette of the place. She was the guiding star in the fashionable circle in which she moved, and a general favorite.

But there came a change. The father was seized with sudden illness, and in a few short hours was no more. The grief-stricken Henriette had watched with an agonized heart the progress of the disease, had attended to his wants, and supplied his necessities with her own hands. A skillful physician had done all that medical aid could do, but nothing could avail. The grim messenger lingered not, and the beautiful Henriette was left sole mistress of the splendid mansion.

But Frederic Clinton had made preparation for that event, and his lamp was trimmed and burning when the Master came.

Henriette, too, had given her heart to God, while the freshness of youth was yet upon it, and now he supported her in her hour of trial. Her father was borne to the grave, with all the splendor of wealth, a long train of sympathizing friends following in the procession, and showing every attention to the bereaved orphan, who was the only mourner.

Henriette returned with an aching heart, to the home of her childhood, and seated herself in her father's library, overwhelmed with grief.

It was a cheerless autumn day, and nature seemed sympathizing in her sorrow. The fitful gusts of wind came sighing down the mountains, and sweeping over the usually placid waters of the Juniata, tossed its waves into tumultuous motion, and drove it more rapidly on in its serpentine course. The beautiful magnolia that stood before the window, was filled with its second crop of yellow flowers, that were faded and ready to pass away, and the surging blasts swept them unceremoniously from the branches, as it came sighing down the mountains, and sweeping along the valley. The sun had long since hid himself behind the summit of the eternal hills, that she had loved to watch with her father, from that window, while learning lessons from his lips, of the grandeur and sublimity of God, who spake that stupendous chain of mountains into existence. And her thought was turned to that God, who has promised to be "the father of the fatherless." To him she knelt--to him she prayed. Soothed and comforted, she arose and entered the parlor. Sympathizing domestics awaited her pleasure, and obeyed her commands.

Proper measures were taken for an investigation of Mr. Clinton's affairs, and the estate was pronounced insolvent, and all was offered for sale. At first Henriette could scarcely believe the assertion, but when she became convinced of its truth, she nerved her mind to meet the trial, relying upon that God "who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb."

She immediately dismissed her domestics, who had been faithful so long to the family, watching over their young mistress, during her childhood and early youth, and now they felt grieved to leave her. She gave each one a present from her own treasures, procured good places for them, retaining only the dear old nurse in her service, for a few days, till the auction had taken place.

Henriette had never been accustomed to labor, and old Mary was surprised upon seeing her enter the dining room, with her glossy brown hair parted neatly over her high marble forehead, clad in a simple gingham, which she had prepared for a morning dress, with a brown linen apron, to assist her in making the necessary arrangements for her removal and the coming sale.

The rooms were put in the best possible order, and the luxurious furniture arranged with great care, that everything might show to the best advantage. She selected a few choice volumes from the library, and placed them in a large trunk, which was to contain her own wardrobe, and which she had decided upon keeping, if circumstances would permit.

This had been her favorite room; one window looked out upon the mountains, that lifted their heads in majestic grandeur, and seemed supporting the very clouds upon their lofty summits, while their jagged sides looked as though they would drop upon the valley below. But they had stood for ages the same, braving the fury of the wintry storm as its surging blasts swept over them, or parched by the burning rays of the noonday sun, as he poured his fierce scorching beams upon them. She had looked upon them too in the twilight hour, when the coming darkness would present strange, mysterious shadows, and the craggy rocks would assume the forms of men, and fancy would conjure up a lawless band of midnight plunderers emerging from their dark caves, upon the mountain side.

But now she was looking out of that window perhaps for the last time, and the unbidden tear would spring to her eye. The books were nicely dusted, the comfortable stuffed rocking chair stood in its usual place where her father used to love to sit so well, and a splendid ottoman stood before it, which was usually her seat. Her elegant little chair covered with crimson velvet, stood by the window, where she ever loved to linger to look out upon the mountains, always finding some new trace of beauty, as she gazed upon their cloud capped summits. But now she must linger no longer; the rich covering was placed exactly square upon the elegant little table, and every particle of dust was banished from the room, and there were duties elsewhere that demanded her attention. As she turned to leave the room, she raised her eyes to the portraits of her parents that hung suspended on the wall opposite her, in heavy gilt frames. The likenesses were very natural, and now seemed smiling upon her with life-like affection. At this time the man entered with whom she had procured board, and who had kindly offered to assist in removing any articles she might wish to convey to his house. The dear resemblances of her idolized parents were removed from the spot they had occupied so many years, to be carried to a stranger's home. Henriette felt less regret at parting from the place now those loved faces were removed. There were many little treasures associated with dear memories she would gladly have taken, but a strict sense of honor forbade her. She turned away, locking the door, but leaving the key in it, to be turned next by a stranger's hand. She drew up her music stool, and seating herself upon it touched the keys of her piano with a skillful hand, and sang with a trembling voice,

"Farewell, farewell, is a lonely sound."

She closed the instrument as she finished the pieced saying,

"It is the last time."

There was one hour before the auction, and already were curious eyes peering round the premises. Every thing being arranged to their minds, Henriette dismissed the dear old nurse with many tears and a generous reward. She would live near by and would see her every day, and this was a source of great comfort to both.

Henriette now ran down the beautiful terraced walk, through her father's garden, till she reached a beautiful arbor on the brink of the river, where she had spent so many happy hours. Here was her guitar, her father's flute, and the book they had last read together. She seated herself upon the richly cushioned seat, and looked upon the winding waters that seemed mocking her sad heart as they danced sparkling on beneath the mellow rays of the autumnal sun, its bosom ruffled by the autumnal breeze. At the foot of the terrace her fairy skiff lay moored, which used to dance upon the wave by moonlight, while she and her father made the air resound with the melody of their music; but there was little time to linger here.

She put the little arbor in order, and repaired next to her conservatory, filled with rich and rare exotics, took a hasty glance, moving the choice plants into the position that best suited her good taste, and wiping the dust from its polished shelves. Her father's chair occupied its place by his favorite window that looked out upon the Juniata that was indistinctly seen, peeping its little spots of blue through the thick leaves of the plants that almost hid it from view. She took a last look, passing on to the aviary, where a choice collection of birds filled the ear with their melody. Old nurse had attended to this department, and she caressed her pets, and smoothed their feathers, and breathing a sad adieu, turned to take a last look at her favorite Sullensifadda, as she had named her noble steed. She patted his neck, told him coaxingly he would never again climb the mountain pass with her upon his back; took a last look of her father's splendid saddle horse of dapple grey, and his jet black span of carriage horses, and passed round through the richly cultivated grounds, and gardens where every thing that wealth could procure lay spread out before the eye. She took a hasty look, a hasty leave of all and felt that sense of desolation known to almost every human heart, when called upon to part from dear familiar objects. She looked at her elegant gold watch, and finding her time had expired, returned to the house. Already there had many arrived who wished to attend the auction. Henriette entered a small apartment, seated herself upon a low stool, and wept as she heard the unfeeling remarks and low jests, as the vulgar crowd pulled about the furniture, turning it from side to side, declaring they had no idea Esq. Clinton's mansion was so meanly furnished. But we will not dwell upon this painful scene.

Mr. Charles Norcross purchased the house with all its appurtenances. The furniture was distributed about here and there among the wealthy citizens, who wished to add some article of luxury to their establishment. And all was gone. Sold for less than half its value, and poor Henriette had the mortification of hearing that the debts were not cancelled. So she disposed of her gold watch and pencil, her father's watch, a box of rich jewelry, and every available article in her possession to contribute her mite to keep dishonor from resting upon her father's name. She then went forth penniless upon the world. But there was a light in her eye and firmness in her step that told of a "will to do, a soul to dare." She had been educated in the customs of the village, and had been an aristocrat. Now she had another lesson to learn, a sad lesson speaking of the depravity of the human heart, and now she must learn all the cold heartlessness of that world that had heretofore shone so brightly upon her pathway. She did not once think in her grief that her change in fortune would make any change in friendship's tone, but alas! the society in which she had moved was very, very exclusive, and to labor with the hands was to bar the door of that society forever against one.

Henriette at first did not realize this, and when she met her former gay companions, was surprised when they passed her with an averted eye, or a slight nod of recognition. Frequently was she called upon to meet that sudden death chill that falls so often upon the human heart, when the fond affections of many years gush warmly up to the eye and lip, as we meet some long cherished friend who passes us by with a cold, scornful glance. O this is poverty's bitterest curse, and this too must be met. Those who might have removed many a sharp thorn from the pathway of the lonely Henriette, but added sharpness to their point, and made her feel and deeply feel,

"Man's inhumanity to man,
Makes countless thousands mourn."

The poor girl felt there was no time to sit still, for she was a destitute orphan, and she must try to help herself, and so she repaired to Mrs. Cobb, the most fashionable dress maker in the village, to see if she could learn her trade.

Matters were satisfactorily arranged, and she commenced immediately. A willing hand and active mind made the task easier than she had anticipated. It was soon a matter of conversation through all the village, when it became known that the haughty Henriette Clinton was going to be a dress maker, and many were the remarks that were made upon her everlasting gingham dress, for her nice sense of propriety prevented her from wearing the rich articles of apparel contained in her wardrobe; and at present she could procure no other. She formed the resolution sometimes of disposing of some of her costly garments to relieve her present necessity, but they had been selected by her dear father, and were all that remained to her as a link of her past intercourse with him, and so she clung to them as dear remembrances of the past, the happy past.

She sat through the long weary hours with her eyes bent upon her work, and made rapid proficiency in the art she was acquiring.

Mr. Norcross, who purchased the Clinton estate, was a man of a low sordid mind not at all calculated to appreciate the elegance of his domicile. He was a merchant, and had rapidly come into possession of great wealth, and wishing to climb a little higher upon the ladder of aristocracy, he thought a purchase of the lawyer's splendid establishment would forward his progress. Therefore, selling his own place at a very high price, and purchasing that at an equally low one, did not much diminish his hoarded gold. But after all they were not the Clintons. It was only Mr. Norcross the store-keeper, and they had many steps to climb before they could reach that position in society they were so desirous of attaining. They bowed to one, scraped to another, parties were made, and many means devised, all of which were accompanied with disappointment, as the least desired would come, and those for whom the party was made would just as surely stay away.

Mrs. Norcross was a large coarse woman, with red hair, light blue eyes, and freckled face, but with a good humored expression of countenance. Her two daughters, Araminta and Clarinda, were not very refined in their manners, owing to a deficiency in their education, but were good hearted, cheerful girls. Araminta was much pleased with Henriette's horse, but did not appreciate the name, and declared he should be called Selim, for she knew she had read of some great man who had a horse by that name, and who ever heard of one named Sullensifadda, ugly name. She mounted him one day, gaily caparisoned, but he being equally unaccostomed to his new name and rider, soon convinced her he had a light pair of heels.

Henriette sat busily at work by the window, when the clatter of the well known hoofs sounded upon her ear, and she raised her eyes just in time to see her well remembered steed flying toward the mountain pass with the speed of lightning, while the frightened Araminta was clinging to his mane to prevent falling to the ground, her long riding dress and veil were streaming behind her their full length in the wind, which was blowing pretty briskly, and her small riding-cap was drawn a little farther upon one side than the rules of gentility seemed to require. Henriette pitied the poor girl, but she could not help smiling at her ludicrous appearance. She turned pale when she saw the horse turn suddenly down a narrow path that led to the river, plunge into its dashing waves, and swimming round a circuitous route, spring back upon the shore, and setting his face towards home, bore back the mortified girl all wet and dripping through the streets at too rapid a rate for any one to interfere with his arrangements, arriving at home apparently well satisfied with his performance.

Months passed away, such months as Henriette had never known before. She could have borne her toil, her simple fare, and the ten thousand deprivations she was subjected to, had this been all; but the averted looks of her friends were more than all these. She used to sit a little while in the twilight hour upon her parents' graves, and recall their loved forms and tender words, and people her imagination with by-gone scenes, and then, as she contrasted the present, her cherished text would come to illuminate her mind and calm her troubled spirit, "all things work together for good to them that fear God," and she was comforted and strengthened to go on her weary way, for this took in life with all its little incidents, its every day trials, and she returned to the active duties of life, realizing that "this is not our home."

Ere the spring returned she had accomplished her wish, and entered into many families as dress maker where she used to be admitted as an equal, if not superior. She maintained her dignity of deportment, for now she well knew poverty did not deteriorate from worth, a lesson perhaps she too might have been slow to learn under some circumstances, but which now had been taught her by stern necessity, and her rigid lessons are never soon forgotten.

She had taken the rich trimming from some of her plainest dresses, and wore them when she could not possibly avoid it. She did her work with great neatness and dispatch, and was supplied with all she could possibly do, so that she remunerated the kind hearted woman who had boarded her through her apprenticeship, and been very attentive to her in many ways, for she truly pitied the poor orphan.

In the spring Mr. Clinton's vacant office was again occupied by a young lawyer, who came into the village, from New York, named Henry Lorton, and half the young ladies' heads were turned, by the beauty and elegance of the young northerner. Parties were formed, walks projected up the mountains, moonlight sails upon the silvery bosom of the Juniata, and every means devised to draw the young lawyer into company, and love with the southern beauties; but they declared his heart was as cold as the region he came from.

All these things Henriette heard, as she sat plying her needle, or stood fitting a dress to the forms of some of her gay companions; but now her interests were separate from theirs, and she toiled on, through the weary day. There were some who appreciated her motives, and spoke kindly to the poor orphan, and the sweet consciousness of well doing sweetened her cup of toil.

Henry Lorton was educated upon liberal New England principles, and his mother was a dress-maker before her marriage with his father, and besides, he had ever been taught to respect the industrious part of the community, and his high minded principles revolted from the overbearing aristocracy of the place, and therefore, he appeared reserved to those with whom he associated.

Henriette felt grieved as she visited her father's grave; there was no monument erected at his head, while at her mother's stood an elegant polished marble one, of great value, having a female bearing an infant in her arms, chiselled upon it, and this one thought occupied her mind; she would rise early and eat the bread of carefulness, might she but erect a monument to her father's grave; and often she burned the midnight lamp, and rose before the stars had faded from the sky, to accomplish her holy purpose.

A young lady, who was married about that time, saw and wished to purchase an elegantly trimmed satin dress, and Henriette assented, thinking the value of it would be more sacred to her eyes, in her father's monument, than elsewhere. The young lady paid her the full value of this and several other articles of clothing, and she soon had the pleasure of seeing the splendid monument reared over her father's grave.

Ellen Horton had ever met Henriette with a cordial greeting, and she did not feel the same shrinking when she was requested to spend a few days at the residence of the wealthy Edward Horton that she did in going to many other places, and she went with a cheerful heart to prepare the splendid bridal dress for Ellen.

Next day, Charles Hunter, the future bridegroom, arrived from Providence, the future home of the fair Ellen, and the young ladies and gentlemen of the place were invited to spend the evening.

Mr. Horton was formerly from Philadelphia, and an intimate friend of Charles Hunter's father, who was a sea captain, and being shipwrecked during one of his voyages, was conveyed in a pitiful condition to the house of Mr. Horton, and thus commenced an ardent friendship, to be ended only by death.

The nuptials of Charles and Ellen were looked forward to with great interest, by both families. Especially, was Mrs. Hunter, much pleased, as she was an invalid, and had no daughter.

But evening came--bright, beautiful evening, and with it came bright, beautiful eyes--bright, beautiful faces, and all was gaiety and joyousness, In the brilliantly illuminated parlors of Mr. Horton. Henriette, yielding to the wishes of Ellen and her mother, and the express commands of Mr. Horton, consented to join the party. She entered the room with the dignity of a queen; but the scornful toss of many a young head, and the averted gaze of many a familiar eye, brought the deep blush of wounded feelings to her cheek, ere she reached her seat. As she raised her eyes she met those of Henry Lorton fixed upon her, with an expression that her woman's intuitive sense easily read.

They had frequently met before, but had never formed any acquaintance.

Each one was winning a name. Henry Lorton had made rapid advancement in his profession, and stood high in the estimation of his fellow men, for honesty and integrity of principle.

Many a match-making mother would gladly have entrapped him for her daughter, and many a daughter, perchance, might have accepted his hand, had it been offered, but it was not. No one could elicit anything beyond politeness from him.

He turned to a dark-eyed beauty, who sat beside him, asking her if she was acquainted with Miss Clinton.

She blushed, stammered,

"Why, no; I am not now--that is, I used to be when she went into society, that is before her father's death--before she was a dress-maker."

Henry turned away, disgusted with this indefinite intelligence. For a moment a slight smile of scorn rested upon his lip, and a darker expression shaded his countenance; but it lingered not. The usual happy smile returned again, and holy charity came back to his heart.

The evening passed sadly to Henriette. She was with her dear schoolmates--the friends of her early days, and her heart yearned for the dear familiar tones that then fell upon her ear, and in spite of her every effort, the tear trickled down her cheek. She turned to the window, and looked out upon the blue waters and the grey sides of the lofty mountain, that seemed looking down upon her in sympathy, like the Mighty Power that created it.

She was roused from her reverie by the voice of Ellen, who presented Mr. Lorton, he having earnestly solicited an introduction. They conversed pleasantly upon the beauties of the surrounding scenery, and before the party broke up he requested permission to visit her at her boarding house, the next evening.

There were some sly glances, but it was the independent Henry Lorton, and little was said.

The next evening he visited Henriette, offered her his heart and hand, and was accepted. They appointed an early day for the wedding. Henry adding,

"We will give the people an agreeable surprise."

She finished Ellen's work. The happy pair were united, and started for Providence. Henriette declined taking any more work, as she affirmed she must take a few stitches in her own wardrobe.

Great was the consternation when the banns of marriage between Henry Lorton and Henriette Clinton were published, the Sabbath preceding their wedding. Many a deep flush darted over the youthful cheek, and many a head was tossed scornfully, and a sea of eyes were turned towards the humble seat Henriette usually occupied.

Arrayed in a simple robe of India muslin, Henry led the blushing Henriette to the altar of Hymen. They were acquainted with each other's characters, in the abstract.

After a pleasant tour north, they returned again to the village, and Henriette was surprised when they arrived there, to find the carriage stop at the home of her childhood.

Mr. Norcross, failing from his former premises, to reach the station he wished in society, was about returning to Philadelphia, and Henry Lorton, who in reality was a very wealthy man, had purchased it, unbeknown to any one.

The dear familiar faces of her parents were again hung in the old familiar places, upon the library walls, beaming upon her with looks of fond affection, and shedding the sweet smile of earlier days upon her. The books were neatly arranged on the polished shelves, and as she again resumed her accustomed seat by the window, and looked out upon the summit of the lofty mountains, they seemed like old familiar friends, welcoming her return, and assumed the strange, mysterious shapes, that so attracted her childish gaze; and the trees that stood nodding in the pure winds of heaven, seemed beckoning her to their cooling shades, and she felt that the sunlight of her early home was again shedding its glad beams around her, and enjoyed that subdued happiness, that only can be learned by an acquaintance with sorrow.

Often as she thus sat in the pensive twilight hour, listening to the murmur of the evening breeze, the voices of her dear parents would seem stealing upon her ear in well remembered tones, whispering of happiness and heaven; and she felt a sweet and holy calm steal over her spirits, and felt that "angels indeed ministered" unto her.

Henry invited her to ride with him, and her beautiful Sullensifadda stood pawing at the door, richly caparisoned, while the groom held her father's dapple grey by the bridle for Henry. As they galloped slowly up the mountain pass, the monuments of her dear parents glittering in the sun admonished her that connubial bliss cannot shield from death, for her mother had fallen a victim when she was a young and happy bride, and her young heart had just felt the dawnings of a mother's love. She raised her thoughts to God in fervent supplication, that He still would be the Father of the fatherless.

It was painful to Henriette to witness the cringing servility of many who formerly treated her with contempt; but she had learned many useful lessons in poverty, that affluence never would have taught her, and she ever endeavored to throw the sweet garb of charity over the frailties of her fellow men, and especially did the destitute orphan ever find sympathy and assistance from her generous aid. Fleeting years have borne away many of the actors in this little drama, and the grass grows green upon their graves. Other eyes have learned to look upon the mountains, and trace ideal imagery upon their shadowy sides. Little feet imprint the terraced walk to the winding banks of the blue Juniata, and watch the bubbles that float upon the stream. No change had passed upon the silver bosom of the waters.

Henriette is happy in the dear old home. Her old nurse is the nurse of her children. A manly form is by her side; tender words are spoken in a deep-toned voice; but it is the husband of her youth instead of the father of her childhood. Happy in the affections of her husband and children, and in the faithful performance of those sweet duties that devolve upon her as a wife and mother, Henriette spends her useful life in the exercise of those virtues she only learned from reverses in fortune. Henry too is happy. Disgusted with flattering attentions paid to wealth, he had won him a name and a bride, while his circumstances were unknown. He had watched unobserved the patient endurance and unwavering industry of Henriette Clinton, and resolved they should not go unrewarded.

The smile of heaven rests upon the happy household, and it is invoked by the voice of ardent prayer, and the family kneel together around the family altar, and the rich, deep-toned voice of Henry offers up the morning and evening sacrifice, rendering praise and thanksgiving to the giver of every good and perfect gift.

The Child.

Laughing child of the noble brow,
Whither, say, whither comest thou?
I've been wandering long in sunlit bow'rs,
Chasing butterflies and flow'rs;
And this bright garland round my hair,
Is one that I've been twining there.

Happy child of the garland gay,
Whither wanderest thou to play?
I've been floating bubbles on silver streams:
Printing the sand with golden dreams;
I've wandered widely all the day,
And feel much wearied with my play.

Gentle child of the languid brow,
What is this comes o'er thee now?
My wearied limbs are filled with pain,
A scorching fever burns my brain;
Hope dances not before my eyes,
But only points beyond the skies.

Wasted child of the marble brow,
Mysterious death steals o'er thee now.
How pale and ghastly is thy cheek,
Thy quiv'ring lips refuse to speak;
Fluttering and pausing comes thy breath:--
It ceases now, thou 'rt cold in death.

There hangs the wreath which yesterday,
Like thee, was blooming bright and gay;
Emblem still, its leaves are dead,
Their colors gone, their beauty fled;
But withered roses shed perfume,
That live beyond the mould'ring tomb.

Happy child of the angel brow,
Brighter wreaths entwine thee now;
Thy paths are spread thro' fairer bow'rs,
Adorned with amaranthine flow'rs,
And ever happy thou wilt be,
Thro' a blest eternity.

But I must bid thee farewell now,
Beautiful child of the death cold brow.

Lines, Written on the Death of Ellen A---- B----.

Could infant grace and beauty's bloom
Turn fate's decrees aside,
Death had not borne her to the tomb,--
Thy Ellen had not died.

But God, in mercy, from his throne
Looks down, on earth below,
And plucks from thence, to be his own,
The fairest flowers that grow.

What once was clay, suff'ring, distress'd,
Subject to pain and ire,--
A happy spirit, with the bless'd,
Now tunes a seraph's lyre.

One little lock of silken hair
Is all that's to thee given;--
The rest lies buried deep in earth,--
The soul with God in heaven.

The night winds sigh around her grave,
The night dews there descend;
And there the tears of anguish lave
Thy pallid cheeks, my friend.

But, oh! forbear, nor let thy tears,
Drop on this mould'ring sod;--
Reflect, 'tis dust that slumbers here,
The spirit's with its God.

For ere her fragile life had closed,
What blissful hopes were given;--
Those parted lips and beaming eyes
Spake less of earth than heaven,

And soon thy dream of life will close,--
Its hopes and joys be o'er;
In death's cold arms thy limbs repose,--
Thy soul to glory soar.

And then, perhaps, this cherub form,
From sin so soon set free,
May, with a daughter's greeting warm,
Be first to welcome thee.

Perhaps, the joys on earth denied,
In full fruition given,
May more abundant be supplied,
For rip'ning thus, in heaven.

Perhaps, 'mid splendor spread around,
Which thou shalt see, and hear,
Mother, may be the sweetest sound
That strikes thy ravished ear.

Then do not mourn those early called
To yonder blissful sky,--
They drink full draughts of living bliss,
From founts that never dry.

The Order of Nature.

The strictest harmony and order pervade nature in all her works. She is governed by laws and regulations which the nicest art may attempt in vain to imitate. If we contemplate the azure sky, with all its glittering host of golden stars, and watch them as they run their nightly course through the boundless fields of ether, we shall readily perceive they are led by a systematic hand.

The sun, as he unlocks the rosy gates of the east, and comes forth to run his glad journey across the sky, diffusing light and warmth upon the vegetable world beneath, moves with the utmost regularity, giving to each succeeding year, "the seasons and their changes."

The gentle moon, as she sheds her borrowed light from the blue chambers of the sky, throwing her silver mantle overnight's sable form, performs her varied evolutions without "variableness or shadow of turning." Every planet and every star has its fixed place assigned it, and even the fiery comet has its appointed orbit, and the man of science can tell the exact time of its appearance, and the course it will run, and now it is accounted for by the laws of nature, rather than regarded as a fearful herald of war or devastation; and even the meteor flash, that glares for a moment and then disappears forever, is awakened into action by the density of the atmosphere, and regulated by the same common laws.

The portentous thunder clouds that emit the vivid lightning's flash, and the deep-toned thunder reverberating through the sky, speak of the sublimity of their Author, and perform their destined missions of purifying the air and increasing the health of man.

The sea, the deep blue sea, too, has its bounds that it cannot pass. Its tides may ebb and flow, its bounding waves make music on their winding shore, or heave in their giant strength, and dash their foam and spray before the raging tempest, but they are curbed by that Eternal fiat, which says, "So far shalt thou go and no farther," or hushed by the same voice saying, "Peace, be still!"

Rivers run in their destined courses, and pay constant tribute to old ocean, and even the sparkling brook that bubbles over its pebbly bottom, dances not in vain, for the grass upon its margin assumes a deeper green and marks the threading of its silver current.

The gentle dew that distils upon the tender herbage in the deep silence of midnight, of the mist that rises from the bosom of the earth, are not without design. The mountain rising in its magnificence, the gently sloping hill and verdant vale, are so arranged as to fill the mind of the beholder with satisfaction, while the eye gazes upon the perfect harmony that pervades great nature's works.

Every thing that is beautiful, every thing that is sublime, is depicted in the order and perfection of the natural world, where each has its appropriate sphere and fulfils its appropriate destiny.

This is a theme upon which the most powerful mind may expand itself, stretching from thought to thought, and from object to object, without grasping half the amazing whole. When we contemplate the forest standing in silent grandeur, the tree, the shrub, the flower in all its beautiful varieties, the rock, the precipice, the foaming cataract that has thundered on for ages with the same deafening roar, and all the ten thousand varied objects of inanimate creation, and observe the nice regulations in which they are placed, we can but remark with reverential awe, "In wisdom hast thou made them all."

If we find beauty thus depicted in the inanimate, how much greater will be our admiration in the contemplation of animate creation? If we descend into the depths of the ocean we shall find it teeming with life, from the sponge that clings to the rock, to the mighty leviathan that sports amid the bounding billows.

Or search we the air, we find it peopled with myriads of floating insects, on silken wings, each moving in its own little sphere, and then passing away. The spotted butterfly, that flits through the air, on fairy wing, or rests its downy pinions on the bosom of the fragrant rose; the bird that carols on the spray, or warbles sweetly through the air; the mountain bee, that comes humming round the summer flower, sipping its store of sweets, and even the drowsy hum of the summer-fly, as it floats in mazy circles, are all connecting links in nature's chain.

But where shall we stop? the spider, the cricket, the beetle, the glow-worm, with his feeble lamp, the firefly that flies twinkling through the air all the "midsummer night," and every beast that roams the field, whether wild or tame, all--all have their proper sphere, and are in proper order.

But we have still to contemplate the most beautiful piece of mechanism, of nature's plastic hand, in the formation of man, for whose convenience and use, all things else seem created. A careless observer looks upon man, and sees in the general outline a beautiful piece of mechanism, moving in grace and dignity, and standing in an exalted position upon the earth. He, too, has his place assigned him, by the order of nature, and moves in the highest sphere of earthly being. By the useful and interesting study of physiology, we are enabled to define the construction of his system, to delineate the muscles, nerves, veins and fibres, and the complicated mass that forms the man, with all their separate dependencies upon each other. But the mind, the great moving spring of action that gives motion to the whole, who can analyze or delineate? That will live forever, when the stillness of death rests upon the pulses. That is the great connecting link between time and eternity, and doomed, by the order of nature, to live forever, and the boundless ages of eternity alone can fully develop its faculties, or define its station.

And too, there is another upon earth, whose presence is often felt, but is never seen. The pale horse and his rider leave unmistakable evidences of their sojourn with the generations of men, They pass on, breathing upon them a chilling breath, and they are seen no more. They go forth, conquering and to conquer, and the king, and the beggar, fall alike, before their ruthless sway.

But, there is yet the great unchanging God, for whose honor and glory all things are and were created, who "spake and it was done," and who has taught us by revelation, that the heavens shall be rolled together as a scroll, and the spirit alone remain of man.

The Seasons.

Swift rolls the fast revolving year,
As months and seasons disappear;
And scarce we greet the vernal Spring,
Ere Summer spreads her sultry wing;
And she retires with hasty pace
To give to sober Autumn place;
Who scatters fruits and flowers around,
And then to Winter leaves the ground;
With frost and snow and tempests drear,
He closes each succeeding year.
But though so swift they pass from view,
Each has its portioned work to do.
Spring must unbind the icy chains,
And send the streamlet o'er the plains;
Call the feather'd songsters home,
That far in southern climates roam:
Must bid the springing grass appear,
And daisies crown the bright parterre;
Gently distil her silent show'rs,
And propagate her budding flow'rs;
Thus gathering up her treasures fair,
A gift for Summer, rich and rare.

She takes the garland bright and gay,
Fresh from the blooming lap of May:
Unfolds the casings from the flow'rs,
And flings them o'er her sylvan bow'rs;
Brings all their hidden tints to view,
Gives to their leaves a deeper hue:
Sends forth the bee and butterfly,
On downy pinions soaring high,
Or sporting gay from flow'r to flow'r,
Through the short lived Summer hour.
She brings, on every passing breeze,
Some fragrant odor from the trees;
Spreads out rich beauties to the eye,
And softly breathes her gentlest sigh;
That wakes the ripple on the stream,--
That dances in the sun's bright beam.
But summer beauties vanish soon,--
As shadows dim the sun at noon;
And Autumn comes with aspect mild,
Meditation's favorite child.

She takes the gift from Summer fair,--
Unbraids the tresses of her hair,
Mellows her fruits, scatters her flow'rs,
And blights the leaves upon her bow'rs,
Then, breathes a mournful sigh around,
And whirls them, wither'd, o'er the ground.

Then Winter comes, with tempest wild,
Nature's boisterous, willful child,
To bind the streams in icy chains,--
Drive sleet and snow across the plains;
And howling through the wintry sky,
The drifting winds shriek loud and high.

Thus Winter closes every year,
With snow, and ice, and tempest drear.
So human life is but a span,--
A title, portion'd out to man;
A tale, a song, a fev'rish dream,--
A bubble floating on a stream,
A tear, a sigh, a passing breath,--
A meteor, swallow'd up in death.
But though so brief the space we view,
Each has its portion'd work to do:
Youth must unbind and bud the flow'rs,
To bloom o'er manhood's sylvan bow'rs;
He must propel the early shoot,
And ripen it to golden fruit,
And weave a chaplet, rich and rare,
For age to twine around his hair,--
As Faith looks up, with trusting eye,
To brighter worlds beyond the sky.

Dedication in an Album.

Pure, unsullied pages lay before me. How chaste should be the thought, how refined the sentiment here inscribed. May this book be dedicated to Religion, Morality and Virtue, and a deep toned piety pervade the thoughts and emotions here portrayed, which shall find a deep response in your own heart. Like these spotless pages, the mind of youth lays unoccupied, spread out for the reception of the seed committed to its trust. May it be yours to propagate high and holy principles, that shall be watered by the dews of divine grace, ripened by the Sun of Righteousness, and bring forth fruit to eternal life.

As passing years bear away the glad season of youth, and usher in a more mature period, may the traces upon these pages bring back pleasant recollections of dear friends, some, perchance, who may have passed away with passing years, and the hand that now writes may be mouldering in the dust; for disguise as we may, "it is appointed to all men once to die." Those who live well, live in preparation for death.

When in future years your eye glances upon this page, my prayer for your enduring happiness will meet it. May flowers bloom beside your pathway, that never fade.

Sweet flowers beside thy pathway
Are blooming, bright and gay,
Fann'd gently by the zephyr's wing,--
Kiss'd by the sun's warm ray.

But soon they fold their withered leaves,
And fade away and die;
But still they shed a sweet perfume,
Where fallen low they lie.

But there are flowers, perennial flowers,
That bloom within the mind:
Shedding a fragrance o'er the life,
Leaving perfume behind.

Henry, may these adorn your mind,
Religion, Virtue, Truth;
And thus diffuse their odor sweet,
O'er the glad days of youth.

They shall not fade, but brighter bloom,
As years are flitting by;--
Cast a sweet fragrance round the tomb,
And bloom in worlds on high.

Lines, Written to Mrs. S----, On the Death of Her Infant.

Thy anxious watchings now are past,
The summons has been given,
Thy gentle one has breath'd her last,
And gone from earth to heaven.

Yet do not mourn that she from earth
Thus early passed away;
A pitying Saviour call'd her hence,
To realms of endless day.

And she is free from earth-born cares,
Which we must still endure;
Her little dream of life is o'er,
Her crown of glory sure.

Though icy death, like winter's shroud,
Surrounds the mould'ring tomb,
Upon the resurrection morn
Eternal spring shall bloom.

Mother of angels, softly tread,
Perchance to thee 'tis given,
To hold communings with the dead,
Who live and reign in heaven.

And as thy treasures there are laid,
There thy warm hopes will rise;
Thou hast an added golden link
To draw thee to the skies.

Thy mission is a holy one:
Thy honor'd husband stands
A watchman upon Zion's walls,
Its standard in his hands.

'Tis thine to aid the glorious work,
Thy ransom'd soul may tell
The wonders of a Saviour's love,
Who "doeth all things well."

Press onward in thy heav'nly task,
And drink in full supplies
From free Salvation's living springs,
That in the gospel rise.

God speed thee, sister, on thy way;
May many souls be giv'n
In answer to thy fervent prayers,
To form thy crown in heav'n.

Lines, To Mrs. S----, On the Death of Her Son, Who Died March, 1854.

Smooth gently back the silken hair,
From off the death-damp brow;
Life's feeble struggles all are o'er,--
Free is that spirit now.

Mother, no more those anxious eyes
Will seek thy loving face;
That little, pulseless, marble form,
Heeds not thy fond embrace.

Fold the hands lightly on his breast,
And close his weary eyes,
Then gently seek the place of rest,
Where his sweet sister lies.

And place their coffins side by side,
Within the narrow tomb.
Sweetly, the gentle Saviour said,
"To me, let children come."

Then bring pure buds of snowy white,
And strew them by their side,
Meet emblems, these, of their frail lives,--
That in the blooming--died.

They lov'd each other while on earth,
And now a purer love
Than earth can give, shall elevate
Their intercourse above.

Three cherubs now, before the throne,
Join in the anthem sweet;
Perchance, it lack'd thy Linnae's voice,
To make that song complete.