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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was the close of a dreary autumn day, when the withered leaves rustled before the cold chilly winds, and the dust was hurried on in eddying torrents, that there came a whispered report to the ear of Annie that Edward had returned from Boston. Her heart beat violently, and she could scarcely stand upon her feet, as she contemplated the pleasure of seeing him again, after so long an absence. Many were the cordial greetings she received from her merry companions, upon the occasion. She hurried home, eager with expectation, wondering, as she judged him by the tumultuous beatings of her own heart, he did not seek her sooner. As she passed on to her boarding place, she saw him standing at a distance, in conversation with his brother, and although his back was towards her, she mentally exclaimed,

"It is indeed my own Edward."

She made her toilet with great care, and dressed herself in such colors as were pleasing to him, arranging her hair in the way that he had so often praised. The fire diffused a cheerful glow round the comfortable apartment. Annie seated herself by the window, momentarily expecting his arrival. She took up a book and tried to read. Hour passed after hour, and still she listened in vain for his well known footsteps. The clock struck nine; the fire had gone out upon the hearth, and the autumnal gale whistled mournfully round and swayed the branches of a leafless tree that stood beneath her window.

Annie arose, extinguished her light, and again seated herself by the window, leaning her cheek upon her hand, with her elbow resting upon the window stool, she sat looking back into the silent chambers of the past.

The wan, declining moon looked coldly down upon her, as it peeped out behind

—"the broken parted clouds, Brightening their dark brown sides."

She sat, pale and motionless, till the stars faded from the sky, and the golden king of day announced his coming, by streaking the east with his herald beams. She was accosted by her companions, with many compliments upon her looks, as they joked her upon the return of her lover, and concluded by sympathising with her in his early departure for L., the residence of his father. Little thought these careless ones how deep a wound they were inflicting upon the heart of the sensitive Annie. She never told her grief, but strove to hide her feelings in her own bosom. She could not think he had forsaken her, but often would she think it was indeed his last kiss.

About this time the owners of the factory concluded their profits did not amount to what they anticipated, and therefore, dismissed their help and shut up their factory.

The circumstances of Edward and Annie had now become generally known.

She said little, only affirming he should have all the honor there was to be had, for she had much rather have the name of being deceived, than keeping company with a man so long she did not love; but every one, of course, would express their opinion, and so the village talk went on.

Perhaps it was with less regret upon this account, that Annie prepared to leave the place, to live with an aunt that resided a few miles distant. She collected together her little stock of goods, which she had prepared for house-keeping, consisting of table linen, bedding and such like things that the careful housewife knows so well how to appreciate.

Among the many and beautiful bed quilts pieced by her industrious fingers, was one set together in what is called Job's trouble, with many a grave warning ringing in her ears, accompanied by an ominous shake of the head, and an assurance she never would marry Edward if she pieced her quilt together so. She sighed now as she unfolded it, and stood for a moment gazing upon its beauty. Then smoothly replacing the folds, and laying it in a large chest, she sighed as she said,

"Indeed, I shall never marry him."

Years had passed, and many suitors had sighed for the hand of Annie, and she had consented to become the wife of Alfred Lombard, after succeeding years should more fully obliterate the remembrance of past disappointment. He was a young man of good family, and handsome exterior, and though Annie did not love him with the ardor of a first love, still she respected his character, and admired his virtues.

His estimable mother too, had shown much affection for the fatherless Annie, and she had spent many months beneath their hospitable roof, supplying to them the place of a daughter, while they conferred upon her all the affection of parents, and looking wishfully forward to the time when their marriage should take place.

Annie was schooling her heart to forget the past; but some remembered word, or dearly loved token would awaken the old grief in her bosom, and bring the scalding tear drops to her eye lids.

It was a bright afternoon in early autumn, that Annie sat sewing by a window in the luxuriously furnished parlor of Colonel Stuart, her uncle, who was the practicing physician of the village, that she was started by a loud ringing of the door bell. Supposing it was some one after her uncle, she paid little heed till she heard her own name called, and in a moment after Edward Merton stood before her. He extended his hand, exclaiming, "My Annie." There was a marble paleness upon her cheek, and with a trembling voice she saluted him. He said as he was returning from Augusta he thought he would take that opportunity to return her letters, and take his, at the same time drawing a small package from his pocket. She took them with a trembling hand, but strove to appear calm, for she saw he was watching her with Argus eyes to fathom the secret recesses of her soul.

She entered her chamber and took from a small box, which was a gift from Edward, those dear old letters, over which she had wept so often, and which breathed tender tones of love and affection, and spoke of happy wedded days in the perspective.

But now she must part with these too. She pressed them once more to her heart, and entering the room, presented them to him. He glanced at her earnestly as he took them from her, saying as he did so,

"You do not look well, Miss Somers."

She colored slightly, and replied,

"O yes sir, I am quite well."

"I suppose," continued he, "you have heard that I was about being married."

"I have," was her brief answer.

"It is a mistake, I have no idea of it," and wishing her a hasty good afternoon he took his leave without any reference to or explanation of past events.

Annie sat like a statue after his departure, crushing the letters in her hands, gazing upon vacancy. A marble paleness overspread her face, and she felt now that her cup of misery was indeed full. She laid aside her work, and locking herself in her chamber gave vent to her feelings in a passionate flood of tears. She tried to conquer her feelings and summon her woman's pride to her aid, but it would not do. "Cruel Edward," she mentally exclaimed, "you might have spared me this, or told me the cause of this neglect and coldness." And as she reflected upon the trapping of wealth with which he was surrounded, and the splendor of his equipage, she asked herself, "can it be that love of gold is the cause?" Echo answered "can it be?"

As the weary night drew to a close, the tempest in the poor girl's bosom began to subside. But as the heaving ocean bears upon its waves plank after plank of the ship-wrecked vessel that has been stranded upon its tempest tossed bosom, so did the surging waves of memory bring back one incident after another in her past life, and picture the tender looks and the tender tones of the unfaithful Edward, during the many long years she had regarded him as her future husband. To him she had yielded up her heart's best affections. For his sake she had rejected many an advantageous offer of marriage.

She met the family in the morning with quite a composed countenance, but with a sad heart.

In the afternoon she went to her uncle's to visit her grandmother, thinking, perhaps, change of place might produce some change in her feelings. It was a delightful afternoon. The sun shed that soft subdued light so peculiar to the season, over the face of nature, which seemed rather approximating to maturity than verging to decay. The trees were robed in their deepest green, while the early ripe fruit hung temptingly upon their branches, or lay scattered upon the ground beneath. Scarce a breeze agitated the trembling leaf or cooled the fever upon her cheek. "O," thought she, as she passed along, "the howling of the wintry storms would better correspond with my feelings than this holy calm." She, in her agony, had not yet learned to bathe her restless spirit in the fountain of Jiving waters, or to listen to that voice that said, "Peace, be still," and the winds and waves obeyed; therefore she had no "shelter from the windy storm and tempest."

She was startled by hearing some one near her repeating in a low, musical voice,

"Little Hannah Pease, little Hannah Pease; old Ben Thornton, old Ben Thornton," and looking up, perceived near her a female, loosely wrapped in a large white woolen blanket, which was her only clothing. Her head and feet were entirely bare. Her black hair was cut short, and her weather beaten countenance retained traces of great beauty. She stood courtesying and smiling to a rock. As Annie reached her side, she muttered, "Old Ben Thornton, old Ben Thornton, you deceived poor Betsey Lotrop—you deceived poor Betsey Lotrop."

Annie gazed upon her with pity, saying mentally,

"A poor victim of unfaithful love; I hope the fire that is feeding upon the springs of my life may never destroy my reason," and at that moment she seemed to feel the need of seeking aid from a higher power, and for the first time the prayer for guidance and direction went up to God, in earnest supplication, and our Father, who pitieth his children and seeth the returning prodigal afar off, breathed peace into her troubled spirit, and thus commenced the first dawnings of a new and better life in the heart of this poor lonely one.

Poor Betsy stood curtesying and talking to the rock, till Annie walked some distance from her, when gathering her blanket a little more closely about her, and walking rapidly forward, soon overtook her, and looking earnestly in her face, with a low, gurgling laugh, she continued,

"Poor little Hannah Pease, poor little Hannah Pease—perhaps, if you had married him, you wouldn't been any better off. This face was a beautiful face once; it was the handsomest face that ever was seen; look at it now—how would you find it out? Old Ben Thornton, old Ben Thornton," and fetching another laugh, she sprang over the fence, and was soon lost from sight among the trees.

Annie soon reached her uncle's, where she met with a cordial reception, and she felt that she had learned a salutary lesson from the poor lunatic. The next afternoon, she and her cousin Edith wandered forth into an adjoining field, to enjoy a stroll beneath the cloudless sky, and inhale the sweet breath of autumn, which was borne upon the gentle gales. Nature was at rest. No stormy wind ruffled her bosom or agitated its surface. Her rich store of fruits lay spread out in great abundance, and the whitened fields stood ready for the harvest.

They conversed upon indifferent subjects till they came to a little silver stream, threading its silent way through the silken grass. They crossed and seating themselves beneath the shade of a thrifty apple tree, picked up some of the delicious fruit that lay scattered in rich profusion around them.

"O, Annie, I forgot to tell you I received a visit from Dora, yesterday; she is very unhappy on account of Charles Stanley's conduct. She did not wish to go to the ball, on account of her father's death, and he waited upon Eveline Houghton—then left for Turner without calling to see Dora."

"Indeed, I thought they were to be married this fall?"

"Such has been the report; but as she has not seen or heard from him since, she does not know how to construe his conduct towards her."

"When Orville was returning from his eastern tour, he came across Charles, in Portland, and rode with him a short distance. He sent Dora a present by him, but told him nothing of the transaction. She came to me in hopes of hearing something more definite from him."

"How does the poor girl bear it?"

"She is very unhappy, and says she is not ashamed to have people know she had been deceived; but many tell her they wouldn't mind anything about it."

"They may say so," said Annie, raising her dark eyes to Edith, while a deeper flush suffused her cheek; "but, Edith, I tell you, it will wear and wear upon the secret springs of life, till it bears its victim to the grave."

Edith gazed upon her with such an anxious, pitying expression, that she felt she had betrayed her own secret, and bending her head to hide her blushes, she picked up the mellow, golden colored fruit that lay around her, and commenced rolling them down into the stream that flowed at their feet. At that moment poor crazy Betsey Thornton came bounding over the stone wall that separated that from an adjoining enclosure, and gathering her blanket about her, stood curtesying and laughing before them, repeating as she did so,

"Poor little Hannah Pease, poor little Hannah Pease—old Ben Thornton, old Ben Thornton."

"Take some apples, Mrs. Thornton," said Edith, as she regarded her with a sad expression of countenance.

She took them, curtesied, and with her low, gurgling laugh, leaped over the wall, and went muttering on to rock or tree, or any other object that came in her way.

"Edith," said Annie, "what poor Blanche is that, for a poor love sick maiden, I am sure she must be? As she came with her large blanket fluttering over the wall, it reminded me of Sir Walter Scott's poor Blanche, that

"Stood hovering o'er the hollow way, And fluttered wide her mantle gray."

Edith smiled as she replied,

"You are right—and yet you are wrong in your surmises; she is not the victim of a faithless lover, but the victim of a faithless husband."

"But," replied Annie, "a victim to man's inconstancy, at any rate?"

"Oh, yes, Annie, that is what all the poets sing."

"And with all this before you, Edith, are you not afraid to unite your destiny with Orville Somerset?"

"I sometimes fear to; but oh, if he is ever to prove untrue, may it be before we are united by the solemn covenant of marriage."

"Perhaps it would be better, but I think it will never come to you, Edith."

This conversation led to a full disclosure of Edward's conduct, and Annie unbosomed herself more fully to her cousin than she had ever done before. She sympathised with her in her feelings, saying,

"O, Annie, should Orville serve me so, I do not think I could bear it as well as you do."

Annie, smiling faintly, said,

"But the end is not yet, Edith."

The sun had finished his journey in the sky, and twilight was gathering around them, when, with arms entwined round each other, they pursued their way back, conversing upon the disappointments of life, and the misery that is produced by inconstancy and faithlessness.

"Mrs. Thornton," continued Edith, "was a beauty, as you may even now perceive by its traces upon her weather beaten countenance, and her position in society was far above Mr. Thornton; but won by his addresses, she consented to become his wife. They came to this country, among strangers, to an humble home, where she suffered many privations, which she bore with woman's fortitude. But when her husband became an inebriate, and treated her with moroseness and brutality, reason forsook its throne, and she became a maniac. Hannah Pease was an intimate friend of hers, who seems to be ever in her mind, perhaps because she used her influence to prevent the unhappy union."

"O," said Annie, "when I reflect upon the misery that sometimes exists in the married state, I almost feel it is well to be situated as I am now, as to be united, even to Edward. But then, the cruel disappointment rankles deep."

"And how many men," said Edith, "make the indifference, the ill temper, or the untidiness of a wife an excuse for their intemperance, tavern-haunting, and all their neglect of home. But it does seem to me that it devolves as much upon a man, to contribute to home happiness as upon a woman. But many men of my acquaintance seem ever to cast a shadow upon the sunlight of home, and their wives and children shrink from their presence. Is this the wife's fault?"

"I think not. If so, I think the stronger yield very readily to the weaker, and certainly should receive our sympathy."

"But, Annie, how much there is in this little world of ours, that is mysterious and beyond our comprehension, and nothing so much so as the want of union in the marriage relation. For there the greatest fondness is often turned to the greatest inattention. But, oh, may Heaven save me from such a lot!"

By this time the cousins reached the house, and soon retiring to rest, Edith was wandering in the land of dreams, while Annie lay busied in thought, counting the hours of night, and seeking to look "beyond the narrow bounds of time, and fix her hopes of happiness on heaven."

The rougher blasts of autumn blew more fiercely round, and the dry and withered leaves fell from the trees, and drifted along before the chilly winds, while the black passing clouds cast a deep shadow over the face of decaying nature. Everything bespeaking the return of dreary, desolating winter.

Annie had faded with the leaves of autumn—she had heard of Edward's union with a young lady of great wealth and beauty soon after his visit to her, and she felt grieved, when she reflected upon the unmanly manner in which he had conducted towards her. She had conversed freely with Alfred, and laying all the circumstances of the case before him, told him she should respect him while she lived, but was fully sensible her blighted heart never could know another earthly love.

"And while the lamp of life continues to burn," she added, "I wish to direct my thoughts to Heaven, and prepare for that change that is before me. Death, Alfred, will soon claim me for his bride; he, at least, will not prove recreant to his trust."

Alfred kissed her pale cheek, and looked tenderly upon her, feeling that her presages were indeed too true.

She was soon removed to the home of her mother, whose heart yearned towards her dying child with the affection of a true mother. As Annie's health declined rapidly, and the things of earth became more dim and shadowy, the heavenly became more distinct and glorious.

"O, Ellen," she would say, "how precious at such a time as this, is the presence of the Saviour, who condescends to minister to us in our necessities. O, Ellen, do seek an interest in his dying love. You will be the only remaining one, soon. Father, Matilda, and Willie have long since passed from earth, and soon—very soon, I must join them in the spirit land. Oh, mother, do try by repentance and faith, to meet us there, so that we may be a united family in heaven, though we have been divided upon earth. As I now stand upon the brink of the grave, looking back upon life, and forward to the future life, I feel like the shipwrecked mariner, who has entered the haven of peace, after the winds and the storms have subsided, and the tumultuous tossings of the waves have ceased. For, oh, this poor heart has been wrung by disappointments, but I see now it was all for the best; my Heavenly Father would have all my heart, and so he, in his infinite wisdom, separated me from my idol, and now my affections, separated from earthly love, are fixed upon him, he is my rock, and my stay. No earthly friend could go with me 'through the valley and shadow of death,' but Christ can go with me, and open wide the gates of heaven, and usher my willing spirit into the presence of the happy throng that worship before the throne of God."

It was a dreary day in mid-winter. The wind howled in fitful gusts, and the falling snow was piled in huge drifts before it. Annie, pale and laboring for breath, was bolstered up, in bed, for the angel of death was visiting the poor girl. His icy fingers were upon her fluttering pulses, and the feeble current of life stood still.

"O," said she, "the winds, in their wild fury, seem singing praises to God. My heart is so attuned to praise, that all things seem to unite in the universal hymn of thanksgiving to our Saviour and our God. O, Ellen, is there no music in those words, to your young heart? And, mother, does it not come to you, in your declining age, and bid your wearied spirit seek that rest that remains for the people of God?"

She ceased to speak: the breath became shorter and shorter, till it only came with convulsive gasps. She once again opened her weary eyes, looked earnestly upon the face of her mother and her sister, then glancing round the apartment, seemed as though she were bidding a last adieu to all it contained—then closing them forever upon earthly things, without a struggle or a groan, the spirit of Annie Somers passed gently away.

The storm continued its violence, and desolate indeed, was the cottage home of the mother and the sister, where lay the lifeless form of Annie, reposing in the long deep sleep of death.

It was Sabbath day—a stormy Sabbath day, when the coffin of Annie was borne upon the shoulders of four men to its last resting place.

It was covered with a neat black velvet pall, at each corner of which hung suspended a heavy black silk tassel, which waved in the wind as it came careering on, in fitful gusts, one blast scattering a shower of snow upon the velvet pall, and the next, sweeping it away, and so they laid her in her grave, amid the howling of the wintry storm; but it disturbed not her repose.

Willie and Matilda sleep upon the banks of the Sandy river. The father's grave was made upon the banks of the far off Mississippi, and Annie rests by the side of the winding Androscoggin; her mother, too, is by her side; for she soon followed to the land of shadows.

Ellen has entered upon the responsible duties of wife and mother, and is acting well her part in the drama of life. Her usually volatile spirit is chastened and subdued by the sorrows that have passed over it, and it is her earnest endeavor so to live, as to meet the approbation of God, and her own conscience and train her dear children for that better life that is promised to the pure in heart.

Were I weaving a tale of fiction, the reason of Edward's conduct would be required to complete the work; but it has been said

"Truth is stranger than fiction,"

and Annie died without ever receiving any explanation. Thus we will leave them, with the assurance that they shall again be united, although their remains are now so widely separated.



Lines, Written during Convalescence from Brain Fever

Sing on, sweet bird, thy gentle strain "Can't cool my brow, or cool my brain;" But yet, thou hast a magic pow'r To lull me in a fev'rish hour; Thy pleasant notes, so sweet and clear, Come soft and mellow'd to my ear. And when my head is rack'd with pain, Burning my brow, throbbing my brain,— When all's tumultuous, toss'd, and wild, And frantic as a wayward child; Roaring as if old ocean's waves Were bursting from their coral caves; Tossing as if old ocean's foam Were rocking to its highest home; Moaning as if the sea bird's wail Were screaming o'er the tattered sail; And ev'ry ship were tempest toss'd,— Its rudder gone,—its pilot lost; And no kind ray of light were giv'n, To cheer them, from the vault of heav'n, Save the vivid lightning's flash,— Pealing the deep ton'd thunder crash, Glancing upon the tow'ring wave, Above the seaman's yawning grave;— Glaring into that dark abyss, Where hideous monsters dart and hiss, And ship wreck'd seamen, far from home. Toss amid the briny foam; Till the proud wave, with one stern sweep, Buries the secrets of the deep; Revealing far, on upper land, A lawless bandits' wand'ring band, With sword and rapier, stain'd with blood, Still thirsting for the crimson flood; They show no mercy on their kind, But kill or plunder all they find. Then dies the flash, as ocean's moan Sends back a low, sepulchral groan, Leaving all nature dark and still, As midnight sleeping on the hill, While all around unearthly seems, As frightened Hecate's spectral dreams; Till bubbling, gushing through each vein, The frenzied current turns again,— My hurrying pulses faster play, And conjure up the dread array,— Glaring spectres, side by side, In mould'ring shrouds around me glide; Death's damp wreaths are round their hair, And coffin worms hold revel there. Gibb'ring, they come from ancient tombs, Stealing from low sepulchral glooms, From vault and charnel house they rise, With bloodless cheek, and hollow eyes, They point the finger,—shake the head, And hold strange converse round my bed; Together there, in council meet, With coffin, pall and winding sheet,— Seem waiting, with their dread array, To bear my lifeless form away. They stand with mattock, and with spade,— On me their icy hands are laid, While noisome vapors round me spread, Bespeak the precincts of the dead. E'en then, sweet bird, at such an hour, When reason almost resigns her power; Thy pleasant notes have magic art, To soothe my palpitating heart; They come as wild, as free, as clear, As though no pain or woe were near.

'Tis true, that friendship's hand is kind, My aching brow and heart to bind; Beside my bed a husband stands, And anxious children press my hands; A gentle mother acts her part, And sisters, with each winning art; Father and brothers waiting still, The slightest mandate of my will; Each anxious, who shall earliest prove, The tender gushings of their love.

Sometimes there comes a vision fair, Of waving groves, and balmy air, Of placid skies, serene and mild, As slumber stealing o'er a child; Where breezes hushed to deep repose, Sleep in the bosom of the rose, And scarcely lift their fragile wing, One dew-drop from the flower to fling; But leave it for the sun's warm ray, To kiss the pearly tear away. Pleasant sounds the gushing rill, That bubbles down the verdant hill, Murmuring along ifs native glen, Far from the fev'rish haunts of men,— Till kissing soft its pebbly shore, It dies, nor ever murmurs more. And fairy forms around me dance,— Now they retreat, and now advance; Bright wreaths around their heads they wear, And lutes in their fair hands they bear, Each warbling forth, in cadence low, Their pleasant number, as they go, And music floats high in mid air, As bands of angels hover'd there; Four massive chains of purest gold, A chrystal island seem to hold, Gently waving it in air, As angel spirits lingered there. Like ocean, in a summer day, When gentlest zephyrs with him play.— Just curl the ripples on his breast, Then sighing, sink with him to rest. Beside the streams are pleasant bowers Adorned with ever-greens and flowers, Where insects float with gayest wing, And birds with sweetest voices sing, And happy spirits, free from care, Pluck the wild flowers that blossom there; Their forms are beauteous to behold, White silken wings, spangled with gold, Help them with easy grace to rise From this fair world to yonder skies. They come and go at even tide, And sometimes on the sunbeams ride; And when they wish for railroad cars. They ride upon the shooting stars: Firmly unite them in a train, And skim along the aerial plain; No locomotive do they need, For their own will propels their speed. The Aeolian harp, with plaintive wail, Sighs responsive to each gale; Its chords are strung 'mid branching trees, And echo to ev'ry passing breeze; Gently they vibrate through the grove, Touching the chords of life and love, Mixed with the sounds that round me float. I hear, sweet bird, thy mellow note; For as in sunshine, as in rain, Thou comest to cheer me with thy strain. Few friends so kind to come each day, To sing the tedious hours away.

But pleasant visions vanish soon, And the bright sun grows dim at noon. The pleasant gales forget to play, And dark and fearful grows the day. The waving island takes its flight, Far from the stretch of human sight; High in 'mid air it seems to rise, Dissolving, mixing with the skies. But ah, it leaves no vacant place, For grisly phantoms take its place. Thus ever varying all things seem "Fickle as a changeful dream;" And naught is left of that gay train, My gentle bird, but thy sweet strain. O who can tell in hours of ease, Of fancies wild, and strange as these? When health gushes through each vein, Who paint the fever of the brain? Who picture half the grief and pain That follows pale sickness in her train? With bitterest dregs she fills her cup, And makes her victims drink them up: Binds them to thorny pillows down, And frightens sleep with her stern frown; Or if perchance the eyelids close, She gives her victim no repose, But hurries round and madly screams, And conjures up her wildest dreams, Binds reason in her iron chains, To fancy gives her longest reins, And whips and spurs it, through the brain, Till startling nature wakes again. She flings the rose from beauty's cheek, And on it paints her hectic streak; Takes rosy childhood from his play, And gives grim death the beauteous prey; For ever round her footsteps steal To pick for him his glutton meal; And still she keeps her promise good.

To pamper him with hourly food; But yet they stand there, side by side, Death and the grave, unsatisfied. For should a million hourly die, Twould not their appetites supply. But what seem curses to our eyes Are nought but blessings in disguise; And sickness is in mercy given To wean the soul from earth to heaven; For were all bright and joyous here. Who would think on yon, bright sphere? But pleasure pinioned to this sod, Our thoughts would never rise to God. And death's the passage to the skies, Through which our ransom'd souls must rise, To yonder blissful, bright abode, Where dwells our Father and our God. But now, sweet bird, I miss thy tone, And feel at least one pleasure gone; A prowling cat, foe to thy kind, Thus wrought the evil she designed. Thy life and songs forever o'er, Thou wilt charm my ear no more. Thus in life's uncertain day, The singing birds oft snatch'd away: And they who linger long in pain Suffered to linger and remain. But God is just in his decrees, And wisely orders things like these.



The Angel Cousin.

Our little Mary was dying. The film had gathered over those deep blue orbs, and her emaciated form lay white as polished marble stretched out on her little cradle, around which were gathered sympathizing friends, watching the feeble lamp of life as it burned flickering in its socket. The grandmother and aunt had been summoned from an adjoining village, where they had gone upon a visit the previous morning; and Emma, a sweet cousin not two years old, stood wondering why little Mary did not smile upon her, as she usually did, for she had never looked upon death.

Mary had ever been a fragile child. But her mother had clung to her with all the devotion of a mother's love. Anxiously did she watch that little pale form, pressing it to her heart, and gazing upon it with fond maternal pride, day by day, and night after night, unmindful of food or sleep, so that she might relieve the suffering of her precious babe; and ever would she say it will soon be better. One week succeeded another, and still there was no change for the better. But oh, how deep was the fountain of that mother's love, and the feeble wailing of that dear infant moved all its secret springs.

A physician was consulted, who spoke hopefully, but nothing seemed to help her.

Through the summer months, the salubrity of the air revived her some, and the mother would wander with her round the garden, placing the sweetest flowers in her hand, or sitting beneath the shade of trees, she would listen for hours to the murmur of the summer breeze that sighed among the branches, or the humming of the bee as it sipped the sweets from surrounding flowers, delighted that her darling Mary might thus inhale the pure breath of heaven. And when those large, soul lit orbs were closed in sweet slumber, and the little fragile form could rest for a short time, the mother would lift her heart to God in gratitude and thanksgiving.

Summer passed with its weary watching, and her disease assumed a more deffinite appearance, and the mother felt that Mary must die.

'Twas early autumn; the mother purchased some flannel and prepared a robe for her darling, with a mother's pride, believing that that would be beneficial to her. It was late in the evening when the task was completed, and a neat white apron was hung upon the nail over it, and the impatient mother waited the approach of day that she might place it upon her little form. O how strongly did the bright red robe contrast with the lily whiteness of that lovely babe. The tiny hands, as they peeped from beneath their long sleeves, looked like two white lilies intermingled with the thick clustering blossoms of the running rose. The mother looked upon her with pleasure as she saw her so comfortably clad, and hoped the increased warmth would improve her health, but when she bore her to her father, saying, "here is our doll;" he turned away his dewy eyes, for he saw that she was fading away from earth.

"O Albert," said Carrie, "does she not look now as though she might live?"

He could not bear to crush the last hope in the heart of his young wife, and remained silent.

She continued,

"No one gives me any encouragement, but I do feel more hopeful about her this morning, for she rested better through the night than she has done for several nights."

While she was yet speaking, a piercing shriek broke from the lips of the child, every feature expressed extreme agony, and the last ray of hope in the heart of that young mother went out forever.

From that time, her precious one failed fast. Vomiting succeeded, and the little fountain of strength was ebbing fast away. Little did the poor mother think, when she arrayed her little infant in her comfortable flannel robe, it would be the last time she would be dressed till she was wrapped in her shroud for the silent grave.

During the night her feeble frame was attacked by severe spasms, and shriek after shriek filled the heart of the mother with unutterable anguish. When that subsided she lay cold and pulseless, with the damp dews of death upon her marble forehead. Little hope was entertained of her surviving till morning. But the grim messenger delayed his work, and morning again awoke all nature to life and beauty.

It was a cool day, and the running rose bush that clambered over the door, was laden with withered flowers that had lived their little day and faded before the early autumn winds. Many a hardier flower was blooming brightly, and lifting their heads seemingly in proud defiance of the chilling winds that were blowing round them. One little bud enveloped in its casing of green that hung waving over the door, was perishing in its beauty, even like the little cradled innocent, that even then was passing away before the icy breath of the dark plumed angel. A hasty despatch was sent for the maternal grandmother and aunt, and the grandmother upon the father's side was present, and together we watched the failing breath of the dying child. Six brief months only had she lingered upon earth, and now she was to depart forever. Many, as they sat in that chamber of death, felt how mysterious are the Providences of God. The dried and the withered leaf, the full blown flower, and the opening bud were there, and all were spared, while the youngest one of the group was passing away and teaching the one great lesson, "All flesh is grass, and the goodliness thereof as the flower of the field."

Little Emma stood gazing upon her with an expression of wonder, and when told little Mary would soon be an angel, she raised her blue eyes and smilingly said, "O Emma will have an angel cousin;" thus teaching a lesson of faith and trust.

When the shadows of evening gathered around us, the doctor came in and was surprised to find her still living. As she had not swallowed during the day, he was surprised upon applying a sponge wet in water to her lips to find that she swallowed rather eagerly and without any difficulty until she had taken several drops. He told the mother she had better prepare some warm milk and water, and drop a little of it into her mouth as long as she continued to swallow. Hope sprung up in her heart, perhaps she might yet live, and quick as lightning the recollection of many children who had been snatched from the very jaws of death, passed through her memory. But while she was making the preparation, the little bosom heaved one gentle sigh, and we felt that Mary was an angel. One glance, one wild scream, and the mother fell almost fainting into the arms of her husband.

The crimson robe that was placed upon her with so many hopes by the fond hands of a mother, was removed by other hands, and the little body was prepared for the tomb. The mother gazed upon her with tearful eyes and an aching heart.

It was a mild, peaceful Sabbath day when they bore her to the tomb. The mother placed a robe of white flannel upon her, imprinting as she did so, many kisses on the lily arms she had kissed so many times in all their warmth of living loveliness, when, with a smile upon her lips, and gladness in her eye, she raised them to her mother's lips to receive the proffered tokens of affection.

And so they placed her in her coffin, with a tiny rosebud in either hand (for she would ever hold flowers longer than any thing else), to wither in their beauty with her, the pale perishing one. And the holy man read from the word of God the impressive lesson, "Behold thou hast made my days as a hand's breadth, and my age is as nothing before thee;" and offered up fervent prayer in behalf of the afflicted mourners, and little Mary was borne to the silent tomb.

O, who that listened to that gentle autumn breeze that so softly sighed among the trees, and fanned the flower that bent slightly before it, but must feel that there is a God that orders the winds and the sea, and rules over the destinies of men.

Sad were the hearts of the stricken parents as they returned to their little cottage, where everything reminded them of their dear lost child.

Emma stood beside the vacant cradle, and asked many questions about the departed cousin.

"Why did they take her from her cradle and put her in that little box?" But was ever comforted by calling her her angel cousin.

But time passed on, and other changes came. They left their cottage home where this great grief had rested upon them. Another darling Mary was given them, and found a warm place in their affections. The husband soon left his wife and child, and sought to build up his fortune in a distant land, while the wife and mother dedicates her time to the care of the dearly loved treasure her heavenly Father has committed to her trust.

One brief year sped rapidly away, and winter again returned with his winds. It was a wild night, the wintry winds howled fiercely round the dwelling, and pelted the snow and sleet furiously against the casement, when Mrs. Barlow, after attending to those duties that make a New England home so comfortable, dropped her crimson curtains, and seating herself by a comfortable coal fire, commenced preparing her little Emma for bed.

"Oh," said she, "how the wind blows, mamma; what do poor little children do that have no home?"

Said her mother, "God tempers the wind, my dear, to the shorn lamb."

"Mamma, do you know I am going to have a party and go to heaven and invite my angel cousin?"

"Are you, indeed."

"But mamma, it is time to say our Father now," and the happy mother listened to her dear child as she clasped her hands and lisped the Lord's prayer, and the appropriate "now I lay me," after which she soon dropped into a peaceful slumber.

Thus evening was spent after evening with the mother and her dear child, happy in each other's love.

Winter passed, and genial spring came forth in infantile beauty, unbending the streamlets from their icy fetters, and swelling the buds upon the trees, thus making her early preparation for future beauty and usefulness.

Emma awoke early one Sabbath morning, and leaving her little crib, nestled down beside her mother. After laying quiet some time, she asked suddenly,

"Is it Sunday, mamma?"

Being answered in the affirmative, she said,

"It would be a beautiful day to die. Less die to-day, papa, mamma, and Emma, and go to heaven, and get our golden harps; you have a great one, you and papa, and Emma will have a little one like my little angel cousin."

A shade of sadness passed over the mother's face, but rested not upon it. The form of her darling child was in her arms, her downy cheek resting against her own, and the bright blue eyes gazing earnestly into hers with a volume of meaning in their azure depths.

"But you must get up now, for it is a beautiful Sabbath day, and we shall go to meeting to-day, and the minister will pray for us to God. O how glad I am," and the dear child clapped her dimpled hands with delight.

And so they went to church Sabbath after Sabbath, while Emma ever seemed to enjoy the services, often making observations upon what she heard. She inquired every day if it were Sunday; and Saturday evenings her play things were all carefully laid aside, and she expressed great sympathy for poor little children that played upon that day.

The story of the cross would affect her to tears, and yet she loved to dwell upon it, and it was with great effort her attention could be withdrawn from it.

One rosy twilight hour, when the departed beams of the sun still lingered, tinging the curtains of the west with those bright and gorgeous hues that so frequently surround him at his setting. Emma and her mother sat down to spend that happy hour together, and gaze upon the scene.

Spring was rapidly advancing, and the face of nature was lovely to the eye. The half open buds upon the trees shed sweet perfume, and birds carolled their evening songs on every spray.

But the things of earth, beautiful though they were, could not satisfy the mind of the child, and when the golden stars spangled the blue canopy above, she talked of golden harps, of her angel cousin, and the mysteries of that unseen world,

"Beyond planets, suns, and adamantine spheres."

Suddenly assuming a more thoughtful expression, she said,

"O mamma, what would you do if Emma should die? You would have to carry away my crib and little chair, and put all my play things away, and you would have no little Emma. O mamma, how lonesome you would be;" and bursting into a convulsive fit of sobbing she flung her arms around her mother's neck and wept upon her bosom. Tears too, dimmed the mother's eyes as she pressed her fondly to her heart, and kissed away her tears, while a painful thought went through her heart, "can it be her conversation is prophetic?"

She soothed her troubled spirit, spoke of the joys of heaven, and after listening to her childish prayer, laid her in her little crib with a sweet good night murmured in her ear. Returning to her sitting room, long and sadly she reflected upon the words of her darling child, and tried to fathom their import, and earnestly did she pray that night, "Our Father, prepare me for whatsoever thou art preparing for me, and enable me ever to say, 'thy will be done;'" and she retired to rest with a subdued spirit, feeling an indefinable presentiment of coming sorrow.

The glad light of morning in a measure dissipated the shadows of the previous evening, and the mother and daughter met with a pleasant greeting,—the little girl busied about her play, while her mother attended to her domestic duties. They frequently interchanged cheerful words. Emma would sometimes personate a house-maid, and assist her mother in dusting and arranging the furniture. But suddenly dropping all, she stood by her side, and looking earnestly up into her face, said,

"O mamma, you may have all my clothes next summer."

"Why, Emma," replied her mother, "you will want them yourself."

"O no, mamma, I shall not want them; you may have my little brella, and all."

The mother's cheek blanched, and a fearful pang again shot through her heart.

"O Emma, don't talk so, you will wear them all yourself."

"O no, mamma, you may have them;" and seating herself in her little chair, she sat long, looking thoughtful and serious.

It was morning, bright beautiful morning. The swelling buds had burst their confines, and the apple, pear, peach, cherry, and plum trees that surrounded the house, were thickly covered with sweet scented, many colored blossoms, that gave promise of a rich harvest of delicious fruit. The birds warbled their matin songs in sweet melody; the honey bees with drowsy hum, were sipping sweets to horde their winter's store; and every thing seemed rejoicing in the light of that glad morning. Even Crib, the great house dog, lay sunning himself on the door step with a satisfied look, snapping at the flies that buzzed around him.

But Emma could not arise to look out upon the joyful face of nature. She lay pale and languid upon the bed, telling her mother she was too sick to get up, that she could stay alone while she ironed her clothes which she had starched the night before: but wished her to shut the door to keep out the light and noise.

The mother pursued her task with a sad heart, but often would she unclose the door and look in upon the pale child, and show her some article of dress she had been preparing for her. She would look up with a smile and say,

"O good mamma, how nice they look;" then closing her eyes drop into a deep, heavy sleep.

She grew rapidly worse, and the doctor who was called to visit her, pronounced it scarlet fever, that fearful malady among children, but thought her symptoms favorable.

Every attention was bestowed upon her that affection could give; but the disease rapidly increased.

The fire of a terrible fever was raging in her veins, and drying up the fountain of her young life. In the wildness of delirium she would start suddenly from the arms of her mother, and pierce her heart by begging to be carried to her own dear mother.

The fifth day of her disease it assumed a more alarming appearance, her extremities becoming cold, and a deathlike palor overspreading her countenance, accompanied by a stupid, dozing state. While laying thus, she started up, exclaiming,

"Mamma, if I die, shall I go heaven?"

"O, yes, my dear," said her mother.

"Papa said. I should."

Then falling into a deep stupor, she noticed nothing for about two hours, when looking up bright and wishfully, turning her body towards her mother, she said, earnestly,

"Pray."

Her mother commenced the sweet prayer, so familiar to her,

"Now, I lay me."

She joined her trembling voice with hers, and lisped again the words she had loved so well. She appeared exhausted with the effort, and turning away her little head, and closing her weary eyes, lay apparently asleep about five minutes, when arousing herself, with a sweet expression of countenance, she gently murmured,

"Amen."

"O," said the mother, "perhaps that is Emma's last prayer."

"It may be," said the grandmother; "and how vividly we should remember it, if it should be."

Even so—that was the last note of praise that fell from those infant lips upon earth. But often does it start upon memory's ear, during the silence of the midnight hour, and seem like gentle whisperings from the spirit land, and bring back recollections at once painful and pleasant to the soul.

She slept till the twilight hour, when she wished her mother to carry her to the window. Oh, happily were those hours usually spent, when the duties of the day had all been performed, and the quiet shades of evening gathered round their dwelling. Often was their talk of heaven. O, they were happy hours! but they flew by upon golden wings, leaving their deep impress on that fond mother's heart.

As she sat with her that evening, looking upon the varied prospect that was spread out before them, no word passed her lips. Her mother pointed to the green grass, the trees covered with clustering blossoms, the river, hurrying on to join old Ocean, reflecting the mild radiance of the setting sun on its placid surface; and to the busy hum of life, as people hurried to and fro in the village that lay distinctly spread out before them; but nothing could elicit a word from her, till turning her head wearily, and closing her eyes for the last time upon the beautiful world, with its deep blue sky, and its rich sunset dyes, she said,

"O, mamma, lay me in my little bed;" and after noticing apparently every object in the room, she closed her eyes and lay in a deep stupor for four successive days and nights. Her face was pale as marble, and incoherent words escaped her lips. Sometimes she would murmur,

"Oh, carry me home—carry me home." When she revived from the stupor, at times it was agonizing to witness her suffering. But no word escaped her lips.

Everything that medical aid could do was done, and every attention was paid to the suffering child by her parents and friends, and every effort used to stay the disease. But "he who seeth not as man seeth," willed it otherwise, and all proved unavailing. On the fifteenth day the rash came on again; the throat swelled badly, and the sufferings of the dear little one were extreme. Even then, it was evident she knew her friends, and many were the tokens of affection bestowed upon them as they watched beside her couch, and ministered to her necessities.

Often would she reach up her little emaciated hands, and placing them upon her mother's cheeks, press them tenderly. It seemed to soothe her, when her mother would lay her head upon her pillow beside her, and take her little wasted hand in hers. And when she sang to her, in a low, trembling voice, her little favorite hymn,

"There is a happy land, far; far away,"

she lay quiet, and seemed listening with much attention, raising one little hand three times, then laying it fondly round her mother's neck. Long, during that day, did the grief-stricken mother breathe sad, melancholy music into the ears of her dying child.

Towards evening that restless state, so common in cholera infantum, came on, accompanied at every breath by a groan, which the doctor said must soon wear her out.

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.