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For the Southern Literary Gazette.
SUMMER NIGHT WIND.
BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, ESQ.
riow soothingly, to close the sultry day,
Conies ih.: sweet breeze from off the murmuring
waves,
That break away in music; —and I feel
Asa new spirit were within my veins
And anew life tn nature. I awake
From the deep weight of weariness, that fell.
Fall-like, upon my spirit as my frame,
Making the sense of helplessness a pain,
Even to the heart ; —a fresher pulse of life,
Throbs quickly through each vein and artery.
And anew wing, a livelier nerve and strength.
Kindles tht languid spirit into play.
Oh generous nature, this is then thy boon,
i hfcae airs that come with evening—these sweet
spells
1 hat glide into the bosom with the embrace,
Whose very touch is life, and on the frame,
O’erborue and humbled by the oppressive weight
Os this fierce August atmosphere, bestow’st
A sense as precious as the boon that takes
The captive from iiis dungeon, and provides
The wings for Ins departure to free realms
Where no oppression harbours. Oh ! I lift
My brow, as with a consciousness of power
I had not known betore. I drink a joy
Most like a rapture, from each gushing air
That rustles and ruffles over the green shrub.
And the gay orange, late so motionless,
That half obscure my window. Precious airs,
Fail of delicious affluence, flow’ on
With wings that beat the drowsy atmosphere,
Until, in emulous munner like your own,
It mates with ye in anthem, such as thrills
The Atlantic, till each billow takes a voice,
And echoes the deep chaunt.
Ye come ! I feel
Youi vwngs in playtui office all about me,
Lilting tin” moisten’d hair upon my brows,
As if some spirit fann’d me. Is it not
A spirit, thus wrought from subtlest elements,
Child of the storm, perchance of ocean born,
But with commission sweet to check its sire
And soothe hie rage to fondness. Thou per
suad’st
Hi? passions to repose, beside the sea.
Aud chid’st bis billows. With a sportive play
Thou steal’st the freshening vigour from his
waves,
And bear’st it to the fainting on the waste
Where other wings are lire, and nature droops
Amidst her richest treasures.
Ah 1 how sweet
1 hat lervent wish, that shook apart the boughs,
Aud made the orange quiver ’neath the eaves,
Even to its odorous roots.
Had I the voice,
To mingle with that mighty chaunt, and grow,
With its caprices flexible—now borne,
A torrent through the void, and now’ a sigh,
Drooping with folded wing beside the couch,
As glad but gentle in the dutious office,
That soothes even while it stirs. Again the
strain,
Swelling m gradual volume, till the burst
Mocks the cathedral anthem, and rolls on.
Precursor of new billows of proud song
That grow to mountains on the beaten beach,
‘suddenly to subside in the great deeps
i hut sent them first abroad. How lowlily
The murmurs waken now, and now the voice
iiinks audibly, with seeming consciousness:—
As one, a maid, that falters in her sports,
Steals back with sweet timidity of step,
As fearing that, in very guilelessness,
Her play hath been too wild:—And now as bold,
By truer thought, that forward glides again,
Rem wing dance and song, surpassing still,
M ith each fresh effort the repeated grace.
How w.ld that sudden gust—how sweet tha
breath
i hat seem'd borrow music from the hills
Os l’aphos, kindling to an amorous mood
lhe sense so lately dull. Alas! it shrinks!
The Breeze’s virtue is not constancy!—
What gay caprice!—but hence its secret fervor,
The charm that piques to renovate the heart,
And cools to fan its tires. It shrunk away,
To gather up new strength. Subdued and awed
it wantons forth us moments —a soft breath,
Thut whispers at the lattice —then creeps in
As doubtful of permission:—to be seen,
Swelling the shrinking drapery of the couch.
Then melting into silence. Now, agaiu,
It comes, and with a perfume in its breath,
Caught up from spicy gardens. The fair maid
Whose roses thus yield tribute to the march
01 that wild rover, guesses not the thief,
W lio'.e fierce embrace thus robs them of their
youth,
Aud virgin treasure —leaving them at morn,
lo weep that eager, fond soliciting,
They knew not to resist. Yet I rejoice
I hat they are thus despoiled. ’Twere an ill
wind
1 hat brought to none its treasure. Is it not
A loving providence that thus provides
With blessiug such as this, the unfavor’d one
Who the had never known it ? In my cot,
Who sees the precious flowers of foreign growth,
I roin whose unfolding bosoms, this wild thief,
Drinks the aroma, to bestow on me 1
•Ty lordly neighbour’s palace frowns me down,
His wallsshut out my footsteps—his great gates,
Cpen not to bid me enter, and mine eyes,
Catch but faint glimpses of that prisoner realm,
His floral Ilarem, where his flowers but fade,
Having no proper worshipper. Yet vain,
His stone precautions and his iron gates,
Against my Ariel, my trickey spirit,
i hat comes to me again with sw'eets so laden
As half to check his flight.
My precious breeze,
Misfortune well may love thee. Thou hast fled
The gayest regions. The high palaces,
l air groves and gardens of nice excellence, —
The pride of power—the pageantry and pomp
I hat gild ambition and conceal its cares, —
Could not detain thee 1 Thou hast fled them all.
And iike an angel, still on blessing bent,
Hast come to cheer the lonely. It is meet,
Ihy welcome should be lavish like thysell.
* >‘ou art no flatterer, and thou shouldst not
creep
Inrough a close lattice, with but half thy train
hen I would gather all of thee, and w r rap
Ihy draperies about me, as a robe
Dear as the first dews of the embracing spring
I f| the young buds of nature.
Sweet, O! sweet,
1 key play about my brows. Thy whispers tell
Dt songs in tree tops, when the forest pines
‘■Ave shelter, ’neath their ample and green
boughs
Ik dark and mighty colonades, to airs
ftrat had no refuge else. They whisper me
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A music such as glads the o’erladen heart,
Subdued, yet sleepless, fever’d with the heat
Os the long day in Summer. Dear the dream
Thy sendee brings me. The still vexing care
Os body sleepless, that still troubles mind,
And makes one long commotion in the brain,
Grows soothed beneath thy ministry, and now,
Slumbers so coy, and wooed so long in vain.
Are wrapping mo at last. I will lie down
Beneath my window . There shall be no bar
To thy free entrance. Thou wilt linger here,
And with thy wings above my wearied brow,
Will put aside the masses of my hair,
With a mysterious kindness—'till my sleep
Shall seem to me, in dreams which thou wilt
shape,
Hallow’d by Love’s officious tenderness,
And watched by one, the heart’s ideal beauty,
Whose smile shall be a treasure like thine own,
Though never, in the experience of the day,
It finds mortal match for my desire.
iDrigittnl (Knits.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE
(MTRASTS OF A CITY.
BY MRS. .JOSEPH C. NEAL.
Life, in its many shapes, was there,
The busy and the gay ,
Faces that seemed too young and fair
To ever know decay.
Wealth, its waste, its pomp and pride,
Led forth its glittering train ;
And poverty’s pale face beside,
Asked aid, and asked in vain.
[ Miss London.
Oh, world, how strange thy lots are given !
Life’s aim ! How rarely understood !
And man, how far estranged from Heaven,
If Heaven requires a brotherhood.
[ Mrs. Hulr.
Nothing strikes the country visitor
of large towns more forcibly,—than the
contrasts between wealth and poverty,
vice and virtue, ease, and unremitting
toil.— that force themselves upon the
notice at every step. In country vil
lages there are no glaring extremes. —
The “squire”—the rich man of the
place, lives almost as plainly, as those
who come under his jurisdiction, as a
magistrate. Absolute poverty is the
effect of vice, and is even then pitied
and relieved.
But in a large city, grades and classes
of society grov. more distinct. The
rich man owns no brotherhood with his
poorer neighbours,—lie may talk loud
ly ofhis charities,but with a few honour
able exceptions, kind words, and earnest
sympathy, which cost so little, rarely
go with the gift. Want becomes des
titution, and vice is the next footstep
in the downward path. But all this
was suggested by a stray leaf from the
journal of a city lady, which fell into
our hands by accident. It would seem
to to be the unvarnished narrative of
the events of one day, and may have
interest for those who tread less busy
haunts.
Januaky 20, 18—
The weather still continues intensely
cold. The furnace is scarely felt in the
hall, and we have fires lighted in all the
grates.
My first call this morning, was on
the beautiful Miss Carrington. Their
parlours here have been refurnished,
there is an exquisite air of good taste
and comfort over all, —from the rich
crimson damask curtains, to the Wil
ton carpet, that muffles every footstep.
The mirrors 1 have always admired.they
have been re-set in richly carved frames,
the cornices are re-gilt, and altogether
I do not know a more elegant suite of
rooms. The mistress of all this luxu
ry, received me in a cashmere morning
dress, trimmed with ermine, and dis
playing her graceful form to the best
possible advantage. Well, she is an
only child, and ought to be indulged!
She sang for me before 1 left. Her
style has improved this winter, her
voice is as rich as ever, and as 1 listen
ed to the full gushing tide of sound, and
watched the varying expression ol her
lively face, —I thought how singularly
blest had been the lot, that had left no
kind of sorrow in her pure forehead, —
and had given no tremulous tone toiler
delicate voice. May God shield her
from future care. May she ever be
watched over by anxious affection 1
My next visit was to a seamstress,
I have recently employed. She is one
of three sisters, who left the “old coun
try” some four years ago. Their
mother came with them. The eldest
was married shortly alter her arrival,
and has gone W est with her husband.
The others occupy a small room in Car
penter Street, and their mother a con
firmed invalid, is supported by their in
dustry. At the time 1 first found them,
they were in extreme poverty, and had
not had any work for several weeks.
Now they are doing better, but as they
incurred what is to them, a heavy bur
den of debt, during the first part of the
winter, —every dollar is carefully laid
by, with the exception of the merest
pittance.
The stairs approaching their little
room were scrupulously white, and
clean, but narrow and in many places
broken. As regards neatness they
were a singular contrast to the first
flight,—which is travelled over hourly
by an incredible number of persons,
the occupants of the second floor with
their lodgers. I could but think, as I
toiled upwards, of the richly furnished
hall l had last entered, —with its soft
carpets and beautiful oil cloths, and
the light falling dimly through stained
glass.
The room was also in direct con
trast. The temperature differed little
from the open street, and cloaked and
furred as I was, I involuntarily drew
towards the small coal fire, where a
faint flame was struggling through a
mass of cinders. “We don’t keep it
well stirred ma'am, it burns away so
fast,” said Margaret, in atone of apolo
gy. Bridget the youngest, drew a thin
shawl closely about her, and again
stooped over her work. The poor
child has grown very thin since I last
saw them, and her cough is worse. I
am afraid she will not live long, if she
is obliged to bend over her needle so
constantly. I did not tell her so though,
—for, I knew it would be inflicting cru
el, useless pain. There is no resource
for her, save charity, and that they are
too proud to accept. I think her colds
are taken in going out too thinly clad, —
as well as by sitting in that cold room.
I must send her the plaid cloak I wore
last winter. She surely cannot refuse it.
Their mother is still confined to her
bed—the only one in the room by the
way. The girls must take turns in
sharing it with her. Margaret said :
“ It was good for her. that she could’nt
rise, for may be she didn’t feel the
cowld, nor crave for the meat like them
that works about.”
1 noticed that all the spare articles
of their scanty wardrobe, were heaped
upon the patch-work quilt. That quilt
1 had admired, much to their delight,
on my first visit. It was Bridget’s neat
work, done at the parish school, when
she was a child. I very much fear there
were no blankets under it now. Poor
Mrs. McMurdy, their mother, told me
over again the sad story, of their land
lord’s cruelty, to her husband, and how
“ he died, with the heart of him broke
intirely.” She seams to find relief by
dwelling on any particular at length,
and 1 encouraged her to go over it for
the twentieth time at least, in spite of
Margaret’s remonstrance, who told her
mother, —“that sure the lady knew as
much about it as themselves, and why
should she be tired out with the re
payting it.” Although there is not
the slightest actual resemblance, Mrs.
McMurdy always reminds me of my
mother. How I thanked God in my
heart, that she whom 1 loved best
on earth, was surrounded by every
comfort in her old age. It must be
constant pain to those poor girls to see
their only parent wanting so many
things that they are unable to supply.
Mother’s basket came before 1 left.
She promised to send it when brother
John’s waiter came with his daily note
of inquiry. Mrs. McMurdy’s pale,
blue eyes looked eagerly at the oranges
as 1 took them out one by one,' —and
such a thing as chicken broth she has
not tasted in many a day. 1 told the
girls how to prepare it, and Bridget at
once placed the little skillet, their sole
cooking utensil, over the fire. It would
have done my mother’s heart good, to
hear their earnest thanks and prayers
for every “ blessin upon her head.” It
is so easy to make the poor, and little
children happy. I wish l could relieve
Bridget from her constant labours, and
furnish them at once with a proper fire.
But I see so much wretchedness that it
is impossible to relieve! 1 could do
nothing but pay them liberally, for
what they have already done, and pro
mise them more work.
My next call was at Mrs. Heed’s in
Arch Street; 1 wished to arrange with
Annie about the music party for
Wednesday, but as she had gone to the
House of Employment, it being her
week in attendance, I harried up to
Schuylkill-Sixth Street. Harriet Reed
accompanied me to the door, as I took
leave. She was wrapped in a richly
furred sacque, but shivered as the chill
wind swept through the half-opened
door. Here, too, was a luxuriously
furnished hall, heated by a furnace, and
shielded by a vestibule. 1 thought of
Bridget, and turned sadly away, leav
ing my young friend to hurry back to
her German teacher, who had arrived
meantime. How little does she know
of actual inclemency. If she was ex
posed to it a little more she would be
ail the healthier. These close rooms,
and midnight revels are doing the same
work on Harriet, that poverty and la
bour, have wrought for Nannie.
The House of Employment, 1 had
never before visited. The front is oc
cupied by a small store, where the
work of the poor women is disposed
of. Here are all kinds of common
clothing, and a case of really ingenious
fancy articles. This is “tended” by one
of the ladies, on the visiting commit
tee, who alternate in their self appoint
ed task. Annie was in the sewing
room, and thus I had leisure to inspect
the store while 1 waited for her. As I
had a little time to spare, I begged her
to show me through the house, and ac
cordingly we first descended a flight of
stairs to the basement, which is occu
CHARLESTON, SATURDAY, JULY 13. 1850.
pied as a nursery. Here were a dozen
or more small children, some of whom
are made to act as nurses to those still
younger. All are under the care of a
clean Irish woman, who was tossing an
infant a few months old. My heart
ached for one sickly little creature who
was being pushed about in a little chair,
by the oldest boy. The child was de
formed in some way, but the rest seem
ed very kind and attentive to it. One
dear little girl—Kitty they called her,
looked up with a shy, yet confiding air
when we spoke to her. I have rarely
seen a more delicate face ; the features
were finely cut, the eyes soft, and blue.
I shall speak to Mrs. Orne about her,
if she is an orphan. If looks are any
criterion, 1 would rather adopt her than
any child I have yet met with. How they
are kept amused all day, I cannot tell.
There was no appearance of playthings
if we except the little chair on wheels,
given up to the invalid, and a few yarn
spools, clothes-pins, and the like, that
were rolling about the floor.
In the second story, 1 found the
mothers of these children, and many
more women young and old, who pass
the day here. They are sure of warmth
and food, and earn a little besides. —
They were seated in groups about the
large room, as inclination prompted,
and seemed to enjoy each other’s socie
ty amazingly. All were industriously
employed on common plain sewing, a
few having fine shirts, etc., entrusted to
them. A table at the head of the
room was filled with work, some of it
just cut out, and other articles nearly
completed. A half open drawer dis
closed a lage stock of sewing materials,
spools, buttons, tape and the like. Here
the lady whose duty it is to preside for
the day, is stationed. She preserves
order among them (that is when she
can,) gives out the work, and examines
it when done, —encourages and cen
sures, as it may be needful, those un
der her charge.
The women themselves, were as a
general thing, respectably clad. There
was a fine opportunity for the study of
character among them, but I had not
time for physiognomical research.—
They are of course from the poorest
classes of society, but they seem wil
ling to work, and were tolerably neat.
I was pained however to see several
old women among them, who looked
also infirm. It does not seem right
that the aged should toil. They “have
borne the burden and heat of the day,”
and their evening, at least, should be
a time of repose. 1 believe it was a
thought of dear mother, that brought
tears to my eyes, as I looked at them,
—of her quiet, and serene old age.—
Thus it seems to me should pass the
close of any active and useful life. God
help the aged and friendless poor! and
may he shield all 1 love from such a
cheerless fate.
The women come early in the morn
ing and stay until four or five in the
afternoon. They dine in a room ad
joining the store, where 1 found the
cook busy in putting all to rights, after
their only mid-day meal. It is furnish
ed with long benches and tables, and
the cook told me, that sixty persons
had often dined there. The food is
abundant, excellent of its kind, and is
always well cooked. So much for this
somewhat recent system of Charity;
“the House of Employment”—l should
think that the relief it affords, was most
judiciously bestowed. The committee
of inspectors is large, and their atten
tion is voluntary. Annie moved among
the poor women like an Angel of good
ness. It is thus she finds forgetfulness
of her own great sorrows. “Verily she
hath her reward.”
It was now near our dinner hour, but
as I had left word at home that the time
of my return was uncertain, —I con
cluded to accept cousin Mary’s general
invitation, and dine with them. I found
the children all in high glee, crowding
around Mary, who was seated upon the
carpet as if she had been one of them.
A pile of engravings, fashion plates,
etc. were scattered about, and they
were choosing fancy dresses for a little
party their Aunt is about to give them.
Henry had just concluded to go as a
Highland boy, with a full tartan suit,
and coquettish cap and feather. Mary
is to be the strawberry girl, in Mrs.
Stephens beautiful tale “ Palaces and
Prisons.” Ellen’s costume had not yet
been decided upon, but she waited
mama’s choice with exemplary patience.
I am afraid Mary is initiating them
too early into the gay life she has al
ways led. And yet, with all her frivol
ity, she has a warm and generous heart.
She readily promised that the McMur
dy’s should all her new house
linen, as soon as I told her of their des
titute condition. She will pay them
liberally too ; she is not a type of that
numerous class of fine ladiee, who
make most of their display by saving
from servants and work-people’s w ages.
As I looked about the comfortable nur
sery, furnished with every new r inven
tion to minister to the comfort, and
health of the children —from the tassel
led baby-jumper, in which my name-
sake was crowing, to the costly book
case filled with juvenile publications
for the elder children. I thought of the
little ones 1 had just seen, and the dark,
badly ventilated apartment where I had
left them. The mother of my young
relatives, how different her lot from
that of the toiling seamstresses ! My
beautiful Mary, with her long cluster
ing curls, and child-like smiles, —so
loved so honoured, so surrounded by
Heaven’s choicest gifts! My more
than sister! May she never know of
poverty, save through description, its
teachings would be too harsh for one so
delicately nurtured.
The time slipped away most rapidly
and delightfully here. I had to examine
Henry’s drawings, hear Mary play,
besides spending some time in a vain
endeavour to discover my little name
sake’s new tooth. I found it was quite
too late when I looked at my watch,
to visit the parochial school, as had
been my first intention. So 1 bade
Mary a reluctant farewell, just as Mr.
Howard entered. He had dined down
town for a wonder, and Mary accosted
him with playful upbraiding at his neg
lect. His very first movement, was
stopping her tirade with kisses, was to
snatch the baby from nurse Denham’s
arms, and toss her so high that nurse
fairly screamed.
I will not say that no feeling of re
gret stole over my heart, as 1 passed
down the now darkening street s. Twi
light, a winter’s twilight particularly, is
always saddening, and I never turn
from a scene of quiet domestic happi
ness, without the echo of a pang, that
such can never be my lot in life. 1
picture what my home might have
been had the bright dream of my youth
been realized; that a husband’s arm
might have encircled me, and his de
votion shielded me from ill. Who
would believe that the plain “old maid”
is ever visited by such thoughts as
these ! She who goes through life so
calmly, with a serene and happy face.
But Herbert, —when I think of thee, —
dying in the early promise of thy man
hood, —dying with my name upon thy
lips,—Oh God ! Why should I have
been chosen for such a blow ? Father
in Heaven forgive the murmurer!
1 struggled against this mood. I
thought how really lonely and desolate
my life might have been. I recalled
the patient faces of those poor women
I had seen through the day. I watched
the shop-girls hurrying home from their
weary labour, and contrasted my lot
with theirs. 1 have still health, com
petency, the love of friends, the means
of doing good to many, and while my
mother lives, an aim in life.
Dear Mother! As I entered our
warmly lighted parlour, and w as greet
ed by her cheerful smile, and kindly
inquiries about the day’s employment,
I wondered that I could wish for any
other happiness, than that which 1 now’
enjoy. My piano, w'ith its smiling
ivory keys, new books, new music
upon the centre table, and letters from
our dear northern friends, greeted me.
1 drew my lounging chair into the light
and w'armth of the fire side, and fin
ished the day by reading aloud to my
best and dearest friend, who so con
stantly sets me a beautiful example of
all virtue, intelligence and excellence.
€'lj? ftnrt} tE'rllrr.
From the London Family Herald.
MABEL DELAFIELD.
“ Why are you so sad, dear Mabel?”
“ I feel as if this were the last even
ing we should ever spend together, Har
ry, a long, long time must elapse be
fore we meet again.”
“ Pshaw'!” said Mr. Delafield; “you
are so desponding, it is enough to dis
courage me, Mabel—a w ife should al
ways encourage her husband by cheer
ful spirit.”
“ 1 should like to do so, dear Har
ry,” and she laid one arm timidly
around his neek and looked earnesly
in his face, “but indeed I cannot be
cheerful to-night—my heart will have
its way—l cannot control it. A sad
and fearful presentiment tells me we
shall part to-morrow for ever.”
“ Presentiment! What folly.”
“It may he folly, but if I loved you
less the presentiment w ould not have
fixed itself in my heart.”
“ Have done with this nonsense, Ma
bel—l cannot endure it—you have
given me the vapours already,” and
Mr. Delafield left his seat, and walked
with impatient steps backward and
forward, muttering to himself about
the folly and superstition of w'omen.
Mrs. Delafield remained silent. She
knew her husband’s temper too well to
attempt to disturb him, but her thoughts
were sad and hitter. She thought of
her apparently happy marriage-season
five years before—of how ardently her
husband seemed to love her then, how’
careful he was to note her every w'ant,
and regard her slightest wish. But he
was changed—his manner w as cold and
reserved—he had closed the sanctuary
of his heart against her. When she
spoke of it he listened unwillingly, and
gave as excuses his many cares and anx
ieties. She knew that much of this
was true, for the riches that w ere theirs
at their union had taken “to themselves
w'ings” and flown away ; but she also
knew, as only a woman can know, that
she was not loved as she had been —as
she desired to be loved. Then hope
w hispered gently that the future was
not all dark, that when this burthen of
of care, of which he complained so
much, should have been lifted from his
heart, all would again be well.
Delafield wasleaning listlessly against
the mantel-piece—his eyes fixed on the
decaying fire—when his wife rose soft
ly and laid her hand on his arm. “For
give me, Harry, if 1 have been dull and
uninteresting. You know I would do
anything to make you happy.”
An unusual softness stole over the
features of Mr. Delafield as he returned
his wife’s caress, and he said, kindly,
“ Brighter days may come to us yet,
Mabel. Cheer up, and let us hope for
the best.”
Those few kind words were like the |
sunlight streaming through a prisoner’s j
bars, carrying glimpses of freedom and
hope to his yearning soul. Dreams of
future happiness stole over the heart
of Mabel as she retired to rest that
night, and she slept sweetly, even
though she knew that the coming mor- ,
row would part her from the one she
loved so fervently. In her dreams she
overleaped the months which were to
separate them, and in the reunion for
got the past, with all its doubts and
dreamy fears. What a scene would
this fair and beautiful world exhibit if
hope were fixed—if the melody of her
voice were no longer heard, and the
gleaming of her wings were banished
for ever!
The morrow came, and with it the
dreaded parting—the sad and silent fare
well. With high and ardent hopes
Delafield started for the West—there
he expected to regain the fortune he had
lost—to fulfill his dreams of worldly
ambition, and be satisfied.
Some weeks passed away, and then
came a cold and careless letter to Ma
bel Delafield, telling of anticipated suc
cess, but not one allusion to the past,
nor a hope of future happiness with her.
He spoke not of returning nor of send
ing for her—and yet, even while the
burning tears were streaming down
her cheeks, she hoped on, and dreamed
of happier clays. She “ hoped against
hope,” and persuaded her heart into
the belief that care and anxiety were
preying on his mind, and for a little
while had swallowed up affection—but
again it would appear refined and puri
fied by absence and trial.
Faithful to her own love she wrote
a long and tender letter in return —she
encouraged him to persevere in his busi
ness, assured him of her own unwaver
ing affection, and looked joyfully for
ward to the time when they should be
reunited, and forget all past reverses in
their crowning happiness. Months,
long and wearisome months, rolled on,
and no answer came to her kind and
gentle letter. Then Mabel found the
truth of those beautiful words, that
“ hope deferred maketh the heart sick,”
arid she thought that any certainty was
better than suspense, and yet at that
certainty there was no means of arri
ving. The reed was broken on which
she had leaned, and, unfortunately,
she had never been taught that there
was a higher refuge—a home for the
weary—a resting-place for the broken
heart. •
A year passed heavily on, no tidings
came to Mrs. Delafield of her husband,
and she gave him up as dead. Her
heart told her that the grave alone
could raise a barrier between her and
the husband she had loved so tenderly.
But there were those even among her
dearest friends who thought very dif
ferently —who, while they did every
thing that kindness could dictate for
Mabel, hoped that Delafield- would
never return. Seven years passed
away and with them the dearest and
kindest of Mrs. Delafield’s friends; and
now’ that she began to look around her
for support, she found that that support
must be made by her ow n efforts.
The West offered a broader field for
exertion than any other part of the
country, and thither she determined to
go. ller spirit had been chastened and
purified by sorrow—the ashes of affec
tion were cold on the altar-place of her
heart —they could never be again re
lumed, and in their place a flame had
been kindled, pure and holy, indeed,
because it was born of the spirit w hich
pervades all things beautiful and good.
She had learned to look forward to a
rock that can never be broken—to “an
inheritance that fadeth not away”—but
sad and lonely she could not help but
feel as she left the home of her happy
childhood to seek a new’ one among
strangers. Her life had been spent
among those who knew’ her, and looked
upon her faults with kindness —they
knew that the errors she committed
were not prompted by the heart—her
faults w'ere only like motes in the sun
beam.
After a comfortable journey, Mabel
found herself in the hospitable city of
L , and there first felt how easily
wounded is the stranger’s heart. But
Mabel had a way of stealing quietly in
to people’s hearts before they knew’ it,
and a warm circle of friends was soon
formed around her, so that through their
influence and by their aid, she opened
a school, and soon had the pleasure of
seeing it well filled with happy faces.
A year passed by, and Mrs Delafield
was comparatively happy in doing her
duty, and thereby preserving a good
conscience.
One bright and sunny morning one
of her favourite pupils brought a visit
or, a little girl of seven summers. The
child was more than usually beautiful,
and Mrs. Delafield, attracted by her ap
pearance, called her to her side. As
she took the child’s hand, and parted
the luxuriant curls from the open brow,
her eyes involuntarily wandered to a
locket of gold which confined a hair
necklace around the child’s neck. A
paleness like that of death came over
her features, and she trembled in every
limb; but by a strong effort of will
she suppressed the shriek of surprise
which arose to her lips, and said as
calmly as she could to her favourite,
“A glass of water, dear Mary, 1 am
quite faint.” The water was brought
quickly, and putting aside the anxious
children who crow'ded around her, she
THIRD VOLUME-NO. 11 WHOLE NO. 111.
drew the stranger child towards her, and
said kindly, “Allow me to look at your
pretty locket.”
The child was pleased with the atten
tion, and unclasping it, hastily laid it in
her hands.
“Can it be possible?” thought Mabel,
as she examined it; “this certainly was
once my own!”
“ Who gave you this locket my
child?” asked Mrs. Delafield, soothingly.
“ My father—dear, good father,” re
plied the child, in delight.
“\\ hat is your name ?”•—“ Mabel
Delafield.”
“ Mabel Delafield !—why that is my
name !’” and Mabel gasped for breath;
but she was determined to go on and
solve the mystery if possible.
“ How olrl are you, Mabel?”—“Seven
years old in June—and this is June, I
declare.’
“Have you always lived here?” —
“Yes, 1 was born here.”
“And your name is Mabel Delafield?”
“ Yes; is it a pretty name* ? —why do
you ask ?”
“Why, it is strange,” and Mabel tried
to speak carelessly, “ that you should
have my name.”
“ You will love me now because I
am your namesake,” said the child, as
she put her face close to Mrs. Dela
field’s, and looked into her eyes
earnestly.
There was something in that look
that went to Mabel’s soul, and remind
ed her of Delafield as he was wont to
look on her in moments of tenderness.
She pressed her lips on the forehead of
the innocent child, and strove to speak
in a steady voice. “ Can you tell me
where your father lived before he came
to this city ?”
“ In New York.”
Mabel groaned aloud, but, taking up
the necklace, she clasped it on the
child’s neck, and said, scarcely thinking
of what she spoke, “And the hair, whose
soft, glossy hair is this? Is it your
mother’s V
“Oh, no, it is a lady’s who lives
away in New York—she gave it to papa
with this locket!
“And her name —was what?” de
manded Mabel, eagerly.
“Mabel Delafield too —that makes
three Mabel Delafields. and the child
laughed merrily.
But poor Mabel did not hear the
laugh—she only heard the words that
had carried conviction of the unwel
come truth to her trusting heart. She
had fainted, and a long time elapsed,
notwithstanding the kind efforts of
friends, before Mabel showed a sign of
life. The school was dismissed ; and
the innocent little Mabel had no idea
of the mischief she had unconsciously
wrought.
And now, kind reader, let me trans
port you to a fine-looking house in the
same good city of . In the par
lour sits Henry Delafield, intent on
reading the morning paper. Near
him, elegantly dressed, sits a lady,
young and beautiful, regarding him
with an interest which nothing but love
could create.
“ Do lay aside that paper, Harry, and
go with me; I have been w'aiting this
half hour,” said the lady somewhat im
patiently.
“Where was it you wished to go,
Emily?” asked Delafield in an abstract
ed manner.
“To see this Mrs. Delafield about
sending Mabel to school.”
“ I thought you did send her this
morning.”
“ Oh! I let her go with Mary Palm
er just to see how she’d like it, and told
her we’d follow directly. I hear so
much of this Mrs. Delafield’s school
that I think it would be better for us to
send Mabel there. By the way, 1 think
Delafield is getting to be quite a com
mon name.”
“So it is. Did you ever hear this
lady’s Christian name ?”
“ No, 1 did not. But why do you
ask ?”
“ Mere curiosity—that’s all!” and
Delafield shuddered inwardly.
“ You surely don’t think it can be
your cousin Mabel, Henry. I do be
lieve I shall be jealous of her!”
“ What nonsense, Emily. Do you
think my cousin would be here and I
not know it ?”
“ Such a thing might be, but 1 have
half a mind to be jealous of her any
how; you called her name so often in
your dreams last night.”
“ Did 1 ?” asked Delafield, much con
fused, but then recovering himself, he
added, “but it was my own little Ma
bel 1 was calling Emily; and here she
comes now,” and Mabel came running
in out of breath, and exclaiming, “Oh!
papa, I have found another Mabel Dela
field !”
Both father and mother looked sur
prised, but summoning his courage,
Delafield asked, “Where did you find
her, my child?”
“She is the lady that teaches school
—I love her so much.”
“ I told you,” said Mrs. Delafield,
playfully. “ that it might be your cousin
Mabel, and 1 suspect it is; but what
brought you home, Mabel the third ?”
“ Mrs. Delafield was so ill—she faint
ed—and, papa, she thought this locket
and hair so beautiful—she took it off
my neck, and looked at it for a long
time.”
Delafield was rooted to the spot —
the mystery was solved —he knew that
his deserted wife was near him—he
alone guessed the connexion between
the fainting fit and the locket. But Dela
field had gone too far in crime to permit
this to crush him without a struggle,
and, gathering up all his effrontery, he
professed to believe that the lady in
question was his cousin, who, for some
inexplicable cause, had not warned him
of her arrival.
We are always ready to be led by our
own wishes, therefore Emily did not
doubt the truth of Delafield, even
though she thought it strange that he
should evince so much feeling on the
subject, but whatever her fears were
they were soon calmed by the caresses
of her husband. Life had been but
as a summer’s day to Emily; no
cloud had darkened it, and che one now
looming above the horizon might pass
on without destroying its brightnes.—
Thus thought Delalield as his wife
and child sat beside him in unshaken
confidence.
“ Well,” said Emily, “we must call
on this cousin of yours, dear Harry, im
mediately; and why not now?’
“Is Mrs. Delafield papas cousin?—
say, mamma, may I not go too ?
“Be quiet, Mabel,” -aid Delafield,
and then, turning to Emily, “I must first
go myself. Mabel is very proud, and
she must have some cause for acting
in this way.”
“Well ! I don't like proud women,
and I shall not like her, I am sure.”
“Yes, you will,” joined in little Ma
bel, “you can’t help loving her—every
body loves her.”
“ Sometime to-day,” said Delafield,
as he took up his hat, “I shall call and
see her.” With a trembling heart and
a conscience that goaded him almost
to madness, he left his happy and con
fiding wife, and walked on, on, he cared
not whither; but at last, as if his steps
were impelled by some secret form,
he found himself in front of Mrs. Dela
field’s seminary. He ascended the
steps, and rang the bell with a trem
bling hand—a servant obeyed the sum
mons, and he asked, “ Can I see Mrs.
Delafield ?”
“She is not well; but walk in, and
I will see!”
While waiting for the servant’s re
turn the moments were as hours, for
he felt that everything dear to him in
life depended on this interview. The
servant returned and required his
name—his agitation was intense as
he presented liis card, but he observed,
“ I should have thought of this before.”
Mrs. Delafield had, in some measure,
regained her composure, and, though
still pale and agitated, she was sitting
up when the servant brought her the
card ; as her eyes fell upon the name
she had dearly loved, she sprang con
vulsively to her feet, and exclaimed,
“ Harry Delafield !” and then ashamed
of exposing her feelings to the servant,
she sank into her chair, and said, “Ask
him to walk up.”
“Here! to your own room, madam?”
inquired the servant.
“ Yes, Here—he is a relation—a par
ticular friend.”
As the servant left the room, she
clasped her hands over her face, and
said, ‘‘The bitterest enemy I ever had.
Forsake me not now, my Heavenly
Father, but sustain me in this trial ?”
The door opened, but Mabel did not
look up—she felt that Delafield stood
before her as she said, “ Be seated, sir,
and tell me the cause of this visit.”
“ Mabel—l know not what to say.”
“Then why come to disturb my peace ?
What do you desire?”
“ Your forbearance—your forgive
ness !”
“ My forgiveness you have—my for
bearance you do not deserve.”
“You have ceased to love me, Mabel.”
“ Dare you upbraid me with not lov
ing you ? and her form towered ; her
eyes dilated, and she looked on him
for the first time, but his eyes refused
to meet hers. “Harry Delafield! love
is extinguished in my heart for ever;
but I can have compassion on your in
nocent child—on the unfortunate wo
man whom you call your wife. I
would not have her suffer the misery—
the wretchednes you have made me
feel—but you , you —what do you not
deserve ?”
“ Have mercy, Mabel—do not de
stroy their happiness—do not expose
me to ruin.”
“ I know what you would ask, Dela
field—you would ask me to bear my
wrongs in silence—to bury them in the
ashes of my love for the sake of others
—that their happiness be not destroyed
—but how can this be ? —for whom does
your wife take me ?”
“ For my cousin,” and his lips quiver
ed in agony.
hor a minute Mabel was confound
ed by his impudence, and contempt
sealed her lips, but recovering, she said,
“ Let it be so, then—but remember
it is for the sake of them —not for your
sake that 1 withhold you from justice
—and we must never meet again /”
“ How can 1 explain- that ?”
“ In any way you like, I will not con
tradict you. To your wife and child
1 will be a friend, to you as one dead ;
and now- leave me, 1 would be alone,
and may God forgive you as I do now!”
Overcome by her high-w rought feel
ings, she sank back in her chair and
closed her eyes.
“ Mabel! farewell!”
She did not speak, and he passed to
the door; as he opened it, he said; “May
Heaven bless you, Mabel! Will you
not say ‘Farewell ?” One word 7” But
Mabel moved not; and he went out
thinking how strange it was that she
who had once loved him so fondly
should have changed so much.
W hen, after some time, the servant
entered the apartment, Mabell was still
sitting as Delafield had left her, but
the spirit had fled for ever. She had
laid her life as a sacrifice on another’s
shrine.
It was said that Mrs. Delafield died
of disease of the heart, and no one
thought of inquiring wiiat produced the
disease. Little did the unconscious
Emily think as she gazed on that face
for the first time, now cold and still in
death, of the secret buried in that bo
som for ever. She dreamed not of the
sacrifice made for her and her child.—
And what M ere the feelings of Dela
field as he gazed on the inanimate form
which had so often rested on his own
bosom ? lie thought of her never-tir
ing kindness—of her patience and gen
tle forbearance—and above all, of the
sacrifice she made of her own life. But
a secret joy stole over his heart as he
reflected that “ the dead tell no tales”
—that his danger was past. A few
days more,and Mabel Delafield M r as laid
in the cold grave. The secret of her
sudden death was enveloped in dark
ness until all secrets are brought to
light, for “then is nothing hid that shall
not be revealed.”