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For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
AN EVENING CHAUNT.
11Y WM. GILMORE SIMMS, ESQ.
Blessings upon the night—the quiet night—
The sad heart’s time of respite! Then the crowd.
That oursed and crushed are silent—the rude
din
Is banished ; o’er the earth and in the sky
Sits rapture, in the mansion of repose,
Musing with hope, whose fond deluding strains
.Summon us far, in sweet forgetfulness
Os sorrows that are past. We sleep, we dream,
Or, waking, find in thought a counterfeit,
Like t<> a pleasant sleep, whose images
Promise us ] eace. With absence of the strife,
Pay’s character and business, we forget
Our wounds, —and in the soothing c:.lw of night,
Perceive the hand of healing on our hearts:—
< iod’s holy hand ! Around, his ministers
Glide in attendance. Soft, the precious breeze
Slow stealing off from ocean sweet the breath,
As from celestial gardens :—pure the light,
As caught from chrystal fountains,high in heaven,
Among her loftiest hills; —and dear the calm,
A whisper,not a murmur, that, through all,
Breathes love, —and with a spiritual tone,
lYms the docile element y Oh ! Light,
if 1 thee in my heart; —l turn to thee,
F r succour ! Sad, upon my w< ary eyes,
Shines the too gaudy day, that mocks the woe
It looks ou ; —us the merry strain of Leila
Vexes the ear which frequent griefs have made,
Familiar but to sorrow’s utterance,—
The sigh, the groan, gasped pray r and broken
plea,
iGubtfel of grace, to heaven. This is a time
For worship;—for most sure, the Lord is now,
Within his liuly temple. O’er the void,
His and ve hangs brooding. Matchl’ ssly scren ‘,
The aspect of his world. llow beautiful
Barth grows in heaven’s embrace. It is the time
For the bruised spirit to awake to life,
And half forget its sorrows.—half awake
To dreams of rapture. Wit h the voice of man,
No longer vexing, God’s may find its way —
Break in on thought, and in the holy heart
1 )f contemplation, build up happiest s hemes
Os heavenly labor; —purposes most lit
For new possessions, on the instant shown,
For the first time, to the poor destitute,
But lato a beggar. One may well ascend,
Now, while the skies seem opening, and partake
Os the celestial sweetness that pours forth,
In heavenly affluence, from the homo of gifts,
For the selected spirit which hath worn
Garth's chains, the better that it may enjoy
Heaven’s honors—which such loveliness as this
Betokens well and promises ; —1 look,
Lifted l.y worship, from dull thought’s emhraoo,
Into that blessed home and feci it mine.
And nothing, ’neath the broad andshclt’ring
cape,
But speaks of that high harmony which heaven
Breathes o’er inferior objects Larth is still, —
The evening’s solitude is like the strain
Os some remote and holy instrument,
Subsiding, in a murmur that still creeps,
And lingers, by the echo’s mountain caves.
The chatter and the clamor of the day,
Arc done, —and the self vexing discontent, —
Man, sleeps his stupid sleep, while thought is
free,
Aul hope goes forth, and love, and innocent song
Link their joint fortunes, and beneath the night
Wear its own face of sympathy and peace.
With what a matchless, melancholy grace,
How calm, yet conscious of supremacy,
Ghe holds her regal progress. On her robes
Os solemn sable, strung with myriad gems.
How glorious is the light; and, as she moves,
Lo! comes the attendant moon, herself a queen,
* rowifd. mightv, but to her a virgin form
Bearing obedient lights. A mighty chaunt
Bvi'oa from ocean, o’er whose billowy harp
BWcs the enamoured wind, with swelling checks,
B hat sjnd the song along a thousand waves,
A’.rl thence to heaven. Oh! methinks 1 hear,
A music of the soul, that lifts it high
la its own contemplation Such will be,
I {< province—such its sway—o’er land and deep,
he sky, and each aerial influence,
Mysterious to us now Our eyes shall trace—
nur hands shall grasp—the secrets which now
bind,
In night, the Wondrous whole ; and wc shall walk,
( “nipanioncd by the glorious images
W hich now inspire our dreams; laiut images,
hich, when tho evening lights around us burn—
And the winds w hisper, and upon the ear
1 tow into accents of divinity,—
arn us of higher hopes and purj oses,
I huu fill our hearts by day. Oh ! not for mo
Fo slumber, when my soul may drink from
heaven
spiritual blessings. Life for me
Moves heavily by day-light. Strifes of earth
* s lckeu and sudden. Man pursues with scorn
Or euvy,—and the weary soul, subdued
By the unfriendly and unequal strife,
Ketires in gloom within her gloomy cell,
1 o dream of better things,—r.or, as I tins*,
F° dream in vain. I turn from lowly hopes
Os earthly fortune. What to me the strife
| °r the poor pomp of woek-dny vanity 1—
Ihe grandeur, favor, riches, power and pride, (
®dn joy, and superfluity, and state,
an U'l.v told, but make a point in time,
‘ oon swallowed up, as billows of tho sea,
so,no succeeding swell. My heme and self
* on ® are mine, and what is mine with these,
bit virtue, Jove ; tho only wealth that lasts
*brough time, and makes our cajital iu heaven, j
When Time shall be no more. From narrow
scheme,
Os mortal labor, idly wrought or plann’d,
I turn, with sense of strange relief, to hail
The present good and God, —to seek the grace,
That still implores, in every hour and place,
An instant quest; but ever most by night,—
\V hen thought retires upon her hidden stores,
And vain ambition, and frail vanity,
Striving no more, leave freedom to the heart,
For truth to find fit entrance and abode.
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
TO AJVIFE.
Mary! I own thee, my dear better part;
Ah! truly art thou the pulse of my heart!
Bo.y the day, when thy soft maiden charms
Yielded their empire to my longing arms,
\ irtue and modesty, each a bright gem,
| Are inlaid like pearls, in thy diadem—
: Delighted with Hymen—-buoyant with pride,
| Lnraptur and, I hail, sweet Mary, my brido.
Ah ! what can surpass the joy of the groom,
United, in love, to soft maiden bloom !
Youth’s charms, dear Mary, have now given
place
E’en sweetly succeeds thy matronly grace,
j Ah, rare the gifts, which thy bosom possess;
Darlir g! thy form I still fondly caress,
Oh ! Mary thou art the lamp of my life,
Never did husband more dote on his wife.
I COXJUX.
If SI 818 UiilAiteziu
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From tho Maiden Aunt.
THE ALCESTE.
BV S. M.
[Emma, the youngest sister of Margaret
Forde, married James Ferrars, a captain in
i the navy, and was left a widow, with two
i children, —a son, who followed his father's
; profession, and a daughter, who was the 1
i godchil 1 and namesake of her aunt Mar
garet. Mrs. Ferrars resided near a large
I seaport town on the southern coast, which
we shall call Weal mouth.]
July 7th, 18 —. This morning 1 arrived
at my sister's for the visit which I have
annually paid ever since that happy day
when 1 laid the little Margaret, a sweet,
fair, whimpering baby, one hour old, in
! her mother's arms. Dear child! I have
watched her through life, and perhaps
loved her all the better, because she is not
one of those who have received the blessed
gift of being generally loved. She has
little beauty, though there is a charm of
sense and sweetness in her face, which
makes it lovely in my eyes: and she has
always been sogiave and shy in society,
that there must be many who have known
her all her life, without having an idea of
her true character. But 1 know her noble
ness of mind : I know how rich she is in
those fine, pure, elevated feelings, which
people who are not capable of understand
ing them are in the habit of stigmatizing
as romantic. Nevertheless the world goes
so much by outward appearance, and Mar
garet has so universally obtained the repu
tation of a quiet, cold, gentle girl, with
nothing striking in her exterior, and very
little general conversation, that I confess I
was surprised when the news reached me
that she was engaged to be mariicd. 1
had set her down for one of the sisterhood,
—not, perhaps, exactly for the same reas
ons that have made me an old maid, for 1
might have married, had I so chosen, seve
ral times over. But, knowing the earnest
ness, the imagination, the enthusiasm,
which lay hidden under Margaret’s quiet
manner and composed features, 1 felt sure
that she could not attach herself to a com
monplace person; and, alas! her want of
fascination rendered it too probable, that
one who was not commonplace would not
attach himself to her. Pity', thought I,
that such capacities for loving as hers
should not find full employment. But 1
was all wrong, and l confess my mistake
with delight. Seldom have 1 known a
happier morning than that which announc
ed to me her engagement. And to-day 1
heard all the particulars, which are in ev
ery respect satisfactory. Doctor Thornton
is thirty-two; that is, eight years older
than his betrothed, which I consider a very
proper difference. He is already in excel
lent practice ; and, as the other physician
I in Wearmouth is an old man, and there
can be no doubt that Dr. Thornton will
succeed to his connection, his income is
likely lo be handsomer than Emma had
any reason to expect for her daughter.—
How one falls into the habit of mentioning
income first, when a marriage is in ques
tion! Money is to happiness very much
what the alphabet is to learning; it would
be hopeless and absurd to expect lo do
without it; but the absurdity of being satis
fied with its possession, as though it were
the on!} 7 thing necessary, is far more glar
ing, and far less excusable. I have heard
little of my new kinsman ; but I feel so
secure of his high-mindedness and excel
lence, because he is the choice of that dear
girl, that I have scarcely cared to ask any
questions about him. Yet lam heartily
glad that he dines here to-day. Margaret’s
wedding is only delayed till her brother
Frederick returns, and, as his vessel, the
Alceste, is expected daily 7 , the important
ceremony will take place (D. Y.) before I
leave them. As for Margaret, she is a
changed creature, and I can scarcely take
my eyes from her face. Such radiance of
happiness 1 never beheld, —and happiness,
too, which partakes not of the quietness
and restraint consistent with her habitual
demeanor. It is as if you were to follow
a stream from its source, under the shadow
of thick trees and tall overhanging rocks,
and then suddenly step forth into the sun
shine, and see the dark, sombre waters
changed into gushing, sparkling ripules of
light. She passes from tears to laughter,
and from laughter to tears, like a child.—
How Owen would be astonished if he could
see her! He once told me that he thought
her the most uninteresting one of all his
nieces.
Dr. Thornton, or Francis, as I am to call
him—(he called me aunt Peggy immediate
ly, and entreated me to be equally uncere
monious with him) —arrived early. At
the first glance, 1 admired; at the first
warm shake of the hand, 1 felt sure I
should like him. I detest that cold strok
ing of fingers,—that light touch of the lips
against the cheek, which some persons
consider to be the warmest testimonies of
affection tolerated by refined society. Give
me my darling Margaret’s shower of fond
kisses, or her Francis's hearty, prolonged
shake of the hand, which sends a feeling
of warmth and comfort to the heart. He
is a distinguished looking man; tail and
stately, with a remarkably fine forehead,
mouth expressive, intellectu.i4 and some
what stern, but eyes so full of openness
and kindliness, that you feel at home with
him instantly. I can easily believe what
Emma tells me, viz : that he has been an
object ot speculation among the Wear
mouth ladies ; and 1 can fancy, moreover,
that no little astonishment has been felt at
his choice.
The evening was rather happy than
lively, and afforded several opportunities
for the display of Francis Thornton’s con
versational powers. It was easy to see
hat he had read much and thought deeply:
bat 1 was chiefly interested by certain
slight indications of an under-current of
h.eti enthusiastic feeling, which I knew to
hi so thoroughly in accordance with the
temper of Margaret’s mind. Forir.stance,
my sister, in speaking of her son’s charac
ter and prospects, observed, “ Yes, he
should have had a college education, ill
as 1 could have afforded it —but, from a
child, his heart was set upon the navy, so
I let him have his way. What more can
we wish for those we love than to know
that they are happy ?”
Thornton acquiesced in the sentiment,
but glanced somewhat expressively at
Margaret, who answered with kindling
eyes, “ You don't think so, do yon, Fran
cis 1 That is not in accordance with your
theories.”
He turned to Mrs. Ferrars with a kind
of half-deprecating smile, and said gently,
in answer to her exclamation of wonder,
“Oh, we shall find that we think pretty
nearly alike when we come to define our
notions of happiness.”
“And what is your notion of happiness ?”
asked I.
“ First, to be good, and then to do good ;
and then, if possible, to be great.”
“What, Francis?” cried Mrs. Ferrars,
reproachfully; “and you leave out affec
tion m your notions of happiness? ’
“ Do 1 leave it out ?” said lie earnestly
“ Nay, on the contrary, it pervades the
whole idea. But the happiness of affection
consists not so much in the presence as in
the nobleness of the object beloved. It is
the incentive and safeguard to virtue.—
Love, to be perfect, must cast out not only
fear, but sin also-and even weakness.
And it does so.”
There was a momentary pause, which
Francis broke by saying, in a changed
aud playful tone, “ This is good philoso
phy, but I hope it may not be put to the
test. Margaret, could you play Thekla if
there were need ?”
“Don’task me,” said she, looking down,
while a sudden glow rose to her cheeks;
“yet I hope and believe that I could.”
“ My dear child,” cried her fond mother,
who did not exactly understand the allu
sion, “ I am quite sure you could play
any thing you choose to attempt, only you
are so diffident. Was not that a knock at
the door ?”
“ You have a late visiter,” said I. “ Who
can it be 1”
The servant announced Mr. Moreton,
the Rector of Wearmouth, and an old
friend of the family. He entered, and
greeted me kindly, with an effort to assume
his ordinary manner; but his face was
grave and his demeanor troubled.
“ You are come early, or rather late, to
pay your respects to Aunt Peggy,” said
Emma. “When did you hear that she
had arrived.”
“1 did not know Miss Forde was here,”
returned he. “I came for a different reas
on. lam sorry to say, my dear friends,
that I bring you unpleasant news.”
All looked at him in silent anxiety.
“ Let me begin,” continued he, “by tell
ing you our great cause for thankfulness.
Frederick is perfectly 7 well.”
“ What has happened ?’ cried Emma,
vehemently.
“It is this,” replied he. “The Alceste
has arrived, but cannot be admitted into
the harbor: in short, there is sickness on
board, and she must go through some sort
of quarantine.”
“ And Frederick v ’ said Emma. “ Are
you telling me the truth ?”
“ l pledge you my word,” replied lie, ,
solemnly, “that he is, as yet, perfectly ,
well; but it would be mistaken kindness
to conceal from you liiat he is in a position ,
of danger.”
“What is the complaint?” inquired
Francis.
“ They call it,” answered Mr. Moreton,
with some appearance of reluctance, “the
Black Fever.”
My eyes were on Thornton’s face, and
I could see that he changed color as these
words were uttered. He continued to
question Mr. Moreton,but in at undertone
of voice.
“How many deaths?”
“ Nine—in three days.”
“ And the medical officer—”
Died, on the second day after the dis
ease made its appearance.”
“But what attendance have tley? Who
lias volunteered to take his place?”
“No one,” replied Mr. Moieton. “ Dr.
Monckton has a wife and family : and so
lias Brookes. But the news has been sent
up to London, and doubtless by the day
after to-morrow—”
“The day after to-morrow!” cried Dr.
Tfiornton. “And they are dying by
dozens !”
lie paused—perhaps struck by a sudden
deep sigh from Margaret, who clasped my
hand at the moment with a Movement as
of terror. Her cheeks were as white as
paper, and her eyes fixed on her lover’s
face. Looking earnestly upon her, he stood
up and said, “My dear, dear friends, sure
ly there can be but one opinion as to my
duty.”
“Good God! Francis,” exclaimed Em
ma, “ what are you thinking of ? Is there
not misery enough ?”
“These poor people,” began he—but
Emma interrupted him, putting her hand
upon his arm, and speaking with much
agitation.
“ We will not hear of it,” she said. “No,
no; you have no light to sport with Mar
! garet's happiness in this manner. You
; have other duties to think of. Margaret,
speak to him.”
l’oor Margaret! She sat speechless and
motionless, drawing her breath with a quick
uneasy sound, and never lifting her eyes.
I held her trembling hand between my
, own.
“Margaret shall herself decide,” said
I Francis, whose voice plainly showed how
deeply he shared the emotion to which he
S was determined not to yield. “ You are
right, my dear mother; her claim is indeed
great. Speak, my beloved, shall 1 go or
j stay ?”
She cast herself upon her knees, covcr-
I ing her face with her hands, and murmur
, ing, in broken tones, the words, -‘God help
me ! God help me!”
Francis approached her, raised her with
I the utmost tenderness, and placed her in a
chair. “Nay, my dearest,” said he. great
ly moved, “it is too much for you. Be
calm, be comforted; I will never leave
you.”
With a sudden movement she flung her
arms around hjm. - Oh, go—go!” she
: cried, “1 would, not keep you for a mo
ment. (Jo, dearest, —God be with you!”
Gently unlocking her clasped hands, he
| consigned her to me; the poor mother, ut-
terly overwhelmed with sorrow, was sob
bing on the sofa. Oil, the sound of his
feet as he moved across the room to de
t part! He paused in the doorway, anil
’ gave one look back—Margaret did not see
j it—she was kneeling, with her face hidden
l in my lap. She had not dared to look up
i on him since she pronounced the fatal
word “ go!”—and the door closed, and he
was gone.
Margaret arose, went to her mother,
clasped her aims around her, and they
j wept in silence oil each other’s bosoms.
We felt how vain it was to offer consola
tion : we could only sympathize; but when
M. Moreton spoke of the nobleness of j
that spirit of martyrdom which was ready
to give up all for the sake of duty, the
poor girl lifted up her face, ami looked at i
him for an instant with such an expression j
—it was proud, it was almost joyful. But
it was drowned in a fresh burst of tears, j
Never shall I forget the few days that i
followed. Margaret moved about the
house like a restless spirit, or sat mot’on- j
less with clasped hands; sometimes, to all
appearance, unconscious, sometimes evi
dently engaged in mental prayer. Emma,
with the true unselfishness of a mother’s
grief, did nothing but watch and wait upon
her child. Each evening Mr. Moreton
brought us the report from tbe Alceste.—
Entering without knocking, and coming
rapidly up stairs so as to give us no sus
j pense, lie would cry, ‘‘Good news,” be-
I fore he opened the door. And then we
| kneeled down and gave thanks : and then
, heard the sad tale of disease and death,
! which always, however, began and ended
! with the delicious words, “Frederick and
Thornton are well.”
When 1 would call up before my eyes
j an image of those four terrible days, it is
j neither the pale and tearful face of Emma,
nor poor Margaret's glazed and melancholy
eves and drooping figure, that I behold. 1
: see the scene visible from the staircase
window of my 7 sister’s cottaae, at which it
was impossible to help pausing every time
one passed it. The gay 7 town, the busy
harbor with its clustering masts, the cloud
less summer sky, the broad and sunny sea; |
land there, in the midst of that sheet of |
! bright waters, like the evil spirit lurkine
at the gates of paradise, lay the black hulk
of the plague-ship, rocking aud swinging
with every movement of the lazy waves.
What scenes were enacting on board that
: gloomy vessel! What tortures were there
preparing for our unconscious hearts! 1
shudder when I think of it.
The fourth evening came. We were
sitting together, as we generally did, when ‘
the hour of Mr. Moreton's visit drew near, i
1 was now somewhat past the time at which |
i lie usually arrived, and we uneasily avoid- i
ed each other’s eyes, as we tried to keep ]
ii]i a forced and languid conversation, to |
conceal from ourselves that we were be
ginning to grow fearful.
“Poor Mrs. Ellis sent for some winefor
her little boy this morning,” said Mar
garet ; “he has been—” She stopped ;
short; her cheeks and lips became deadly
white, as though every drop of hlooJ had
! been driven back to the heart. There was
! a knock at the door.
“ My darling girl, how nervous yo^ire!’
1 cried I, jumping up. “There—stay quiet
ly where you are, and I will go and learn
what it means.”
I hurried nut of the room, and met Mr.
Moreton on the stairs. The first glance
at his face was sufficient : 1 saw we had
something terrible to hear.
Ho grasped my hand. “Oh. how shall j
we tell her ? how shall we teli her?’’ said
he much agitated.
“ Which is it?” 1 gasped, scarcely able j
to articulate.
“ Thornton,” lie replied ; “he sickened
this morning.”
We were interrupted by a cry, the sound
of which did not leave my ears for many
days,—it expressed such bitterness of deso
lation. Margaret, unable to restrain her
anxiety, had followed me to the door, and
heard the fatal words. The next instant
she was, happily for herself, insensible.
Her swoon lasted long, and. when she
recovered, she was in a high fever,—a re
sult which might easily have been foreseen,
after four days of such suffering, ending so
1 terribly'. She was delirious, and knew no
one who approached her. For three weeks,
the violence of her disorder continued un
abated ; alternating between tits of raving,
and a kind of stupor that was not sleep.
During this time our kind and true Iriend,
Mr. Moreton, was constantly with us;
and great were the comfort and support
which my poor sister and I derived from
his presence. l! A friend loveth at all
times, and a brother is horn for adversity.”
Mow much added force does the truth of
these words acquire, when the friend and
comforter of your affliction is one whose
: high and holy mission is to sneak peace to
[ the troubled spirit, and declare the counsels
| of God!
At length the delirium ceased, and was
succeeded by a long and profound stupor,
supposed to he the crisis of the di-ease. —’
For several days aftor this left her, she
1 was in a strange kind of state : her eyes
| were open, and she took obediently what
! ever was presented to her, but never spoke
‘or moved ; andjwe knew not how far she
j was conscious of what passed around her.
! Every day 7 there seemed to be more and
| more of sense in those cad eyes, which
’ feebly followed our movements about the
chamber, with an expression so pathetic,
that Emma and I were frequently unable !
to restrain our tears. At last—it wasl
about five weeks from the first beginning j
of the fever—l was sitting alone by her
bedside, and the sloping rays of the red
and sinking sun were showering their warm
rich light upon tile windows of the sick
chamber, when she spoke to me. “ Aunt
Peggy.” said she, in a low, but perfectly
distinct voice, “13 it only you ?”
I took her wasted hand, aud bent over i
Iter. “ Yes, dearest; there is no one else
here. What do you want ?”
“Oh, now then, tell me all—every thing.
1 would not speak before, because of dis
tressing mamma. But, dear Aunt Peggy,
do tell me!”
I was troubled, and hardly knew how
to answer her. “ What am fto tell you ?”
I said, at last. “ You must try to compose
yourself.”
“Yes, yes; 1 will, indeed,” blie replied.
“But 1 shall be so much better when 1
know it with certainty. It is several days ;
since niv mind came back to me; but it is
still weak. I remember all: butsometimes
my recollection is confused; and then my
dreams—my 7 dreams are so dreadful. 1
think, if 1 were once to hear it distinctly, 1
should not dream in this dreadful manner.
Oh, if any thing would stop my dreams !”
“Are they so very melancholy?” ask
ed I.
“Oh, no, no ; it is their happiness which
is so terrible. I dream as if nothing had
happened; and then, you know, l wake,
and can hardly bear it; and then 1 get be
wildered. But if you would only tell me
how it all happened; if you would say it i
to tnc in words, perhaps I should notdream (
so again.”
My tears fell fast, as 1 kissed her fore-1
head, and replied : - But I would not check
those dreams : they are sent in mercy, my I
own one; they arc comforts an 1 not tor-■
ments.”
“ Ah, you cannot understand me,” she :
said; “but pray, pray, have pity on me. j
and do what I ask you.”
“You have not strength,” I said; “!
must go for Dr. Monckton.”
She hell my hand tightly. “Oh, no —
no, no,” she cried, earnestly; “don’t go
away; I want no one but you. I have
strength for any thing; you don’t know j
how much better I am.”
I hesitated, and considered within my- j
self. It was ten days since the ciisis ha t
terminated favorably. Dr. Monckton had ;
pronounced that the disease was absolutely :
gone. Her weakness was excessive, but;
then she had been taking nourishment, and
gaining strength day by day. 1 thought \
that the vexation consequent uponmyeva- j
sion of her inquiries, might be worse for
her than the agitation of having them an
swered. At any rate, 1 -aw no means of
escape; and being at all times a bal dis
scmbler, 1 felt that 1 could not disguise the
truth any longer; so 1 stoo|ed over her,
and kissed her, and spoke with a tumbling
heart.
“My darling child, suppose that those
dreams were only preparations for reali
| ty.”
She looked wildly at me, but did not
speak.
“Recollect,” I continued, “you know,
nothing certainly. When your dreadful
illness began, it was all doubtful. God
has been very merciful to us : your dear
brother never caught the fever, and he is
now at home ; and—” l burst into tears,
and could not proceed. But the disclosure
which 1 had begun, perhaps somewhat
rashly was still more rashly completed.—
The door opened, and Frederick entered.
But whose was that pale, joyful face be
hind him? Who is it that lingers otr the
threshold, looking wistfully into tiiecham
’ her, but afraid to advance: his eyes bright
i with thankful hope and eager happiness,
though his whole figure bears the traces of
recent and severe illness? Need I name
him ? The sound of his step was enough
—Margaret wept, and stretched out her
arms. But we must leave the sacred rap
ture of that moment untouched.
And what a party was it that gathered i
[around the invalid’s bed that evening!—
The mother, with her eyes fixed on her
’ child's face, scarcely daring to rejoice, yet
j full of thankfulness, and clasping fondly
! m hers the band of her restored son ; and
] Thornton, the noble and self-devoted, re-
I reiving, even on earth, the abundant re
■ ward of his goodness. Os all who sie.ken
j cal in that unhappy Alceste, he was the
only one who recovered. And don t ior
get Aunt l’eggy; no heart was happier, or
more grateful than hers. Truly may we
! old maids thank God that the privilege of
[sympathy is vouchsafed to us; for if we
suffer by the sorrows of those we love, we
have also great happiness in their joys!
“j 1 xi Lii}}-LiX IB I o
•‘~“7 ‘ ‘ “' r ‘
THE RED CAP.
[Fr-m M -I Ellet’s “Evenings at Woodlawn.J
“ Hans Christoph, the bailiff of a small
town in Germany, was in possession (be
sides the respect and consideration due him
in right of office and personal character) of
a young wife, whose name was Eva. As
often as the worthy bailiff called her by
that name, lie grumbled that it should be
long to her, for it never failed to put him
in mind of the nefarious doings ot mother
Eve, when she circumvented Adam in
Paradise. 1 What befel the first man,’ tie
would say to himself, ‘ may fall to the lot
of old llaus Chi'stopli; for if ihe Eve that
took the apple had one devil to help her,
my Eva may have ten thousand if she
choose ! Ob, Hans Christoph, it was a
foolish tiling to marry so young a wile!’
“By the ‘ten thousand devils,’ Ilans
meant nothing more than the young men.
particularly those of gentle blood, ten miles
round the neighborhood. For the fact
Could not be denied, that they came from
far and near, ou foot and on horseback, to
pay their respects to the lovely wife of the
bailiff, or to almire her as they rode or
walked past the house. Hans Christoph
was not long in finding ‘.his out; and the
(liowrvty *!••- KI vx info n tr:j nSDOFt f>f
rage and jealousy. lie would no longer,
permit Eva lo go to the door, nor to leave
the house on any pretext; and at last for-
Ia le her even looking out of the window,
Eva was a sweet, innocent, amiable
creature, and had always entertained a
profound respect for her old husband. Hut
when he showed such unreasonable dis
tiust, and treated her so harshly, her re
spect, as a matter of course, was reduced
to naught; while he continued, day after
dav, to torment her by his unfounded sus
picious. ‘ldle rebellious spirit in her hu
man nature was routed, until she was at
last provoked into wishing for an oppor
tunity to deceive him.
*• What a woman seeks to do, she is not
long in finding means to accomplish, in
spite of all ilia Argus watching in the
world. For many days had the nephew
of their landlord, in passing the house,
thrown in pitying glances, intended for the
pretty victim of tyranny, which jooks.
; caught by stealth, were readily understood.
So, one day, when the bailiti’was gone to
the tavern to examine a thief who had let
himself down by the chimney to steal,
Master Fritz availed himself of the same
means to enter the kitchen of Hans Chris
toph's house. There Eva received him,
and disburdened herself of all her troubles.
, Whom else had she to complain to ? Fritz
listened sympathizing!}-, and said that he
thought lie could help her. lie knew of
a way to cure the old bailiff of his jeal
ousy. Eva shook her head incredulously.
That would be a miracle indeed! But
Fritz hoped for the best, and presently un
folded his scheme. Eva laughed heartily
at it, and promised her aid to the best of
: her power.
“ fn the afternoon of the same day the
ballitl was sitting in a very sullen in- 01,
oil the bench before his door, lie was
wondering how it happened that his yi nag
wife had not wept bitterly, as usual, at i
> reproaches; and trying to think who had
been daring enough to offer her consola
tion. A slight noise interrupted his rev
erie. and looking up, he savv an old Polish
Jew, in course traveling gear, with a knap
sack on his shoulders.
“ 1 Anything to buy V asked the pedler.