Newspaper Page Text
1852.]
Veiltte. We will, then, make a merry
night of it. It is not often that so mourn
ful a history consecrates the annual dedi
cation of our Lit ue Veille.
From Arthur’s Home Gazette.
HEART-SHADOWS.
It was a cold night —quite cold, the
snow fleecing down, and the hail rattling
against the windows. The wild storm
king was out with the blast, intent on
mirthful mischief. The old clock ticked
cheerily, and the fitful shadows waved
unsteadily on the wall. The winter was
without, out the summer of peace rested
in my heart.
1 sat in the great arm-chair, in the fire
twilight, alone, and in a reverie, half
dreaming, as it were, my past life over
again. The golden boyk of memory lay
unclasped before me; every thought,
every feeling of by-gone hours traced in
effctoeably there. All sorrows, all
intermingling and forming, link in link, a
beautiful chain, without which life would
be incomplete. We w’ere friends, Alice
and I, early friends and true ones; she
was older and far gentler, with mild,
loving eyes, and soft, shadowy, dark hair.
1 was young and thoughtless, and I h;td
treasured up in my heart an idol, one
worshipped and adored. I dwelt in a
beautiful dream, leaking and sleeping,
and iny guardian spirit was ever Alice.
Alas ! how rudely was that dream broken
—how inexpressibly sad the knowledge
that it could never come again ; and yet
all life is but a dream.
Beautiful in soul was she, and they
called her Alice Faye, but to me she was
only Alice, darling xAlice. We were
wandering, two hearts in one, through
the beautiful Present, seeking not to un
veil the rugged world of Futurity, and
knowing and believing that to the Past
were confided all estimable things.
Oh, our Father! Thou who knowest
the frailty of all earth’s flowers, lend, oh!
lend us aid to withstand the frosts
of adversity; the chilly, wintry winds
that crush the already bruised and broken
reed.
How vivid is that memory rising be
fore me now—the memory of our parting.
It was a beautiful, radiant day, late in
the summer. Alice and 1 had been in
company with some youthful friends, and
now, arm in arm, were returning through
the wood. We bent our steps towards
our favourite haunt—a hushed, sweet
spot, where the grass grew long and luxu
riant, and the wild vine trailed its crim
son bloom-flowers, dark, yet bright, amid
the flowers that begemmed the earth.
Oar accustomed seat was beside a shel
ving rock, overhung with the graceful
honeysuckle and clambering roses, its
rude face half hidden by the beautiful
objects clinging around it. The wild
locust, laden with its pure blossoms, and
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
the poplar, silver-limbed, threw a pleasant
shade over it.
Here, the earth seemed more kind
and smiling, and, among all fond memo
ries, this is to me the holiest and best
beloved.
We sat silently; Alice’s hand elapsed
fast in mine, and her head leaning down
upon my shoulder, so confidingly, so
caressingly. The sun-light was glimmer
ing through the glossy leaves, and the
rich snowy blossoms of the locust were
dropping softly—softly down around us.
It was then that we first awakened
from our happy dream life—for the first
time ventured to peep into the unknown
futurity, i felt that life was, indeed, bui
a “walking shadow,” and bursting into
tears, hid my face amid Alice’s bright
tresses.
“Don’t cry, Ruby, darling,” whispered
Alice, very soft, calling me by an endear
ing name of childhood; “don’t cry, it
will not be for a long time —not very
long.”
Her own voice trembled a little, al
though she tried hard that it should not.
“Ah, Alice,” said I, “a dim foreshad
owing of the future is twining itself around
my spirit—that great future, which is a
strange world to u<. Pci haps wo may
doubt each other’s sincerity.”
“No, no, Ruby, dear Ruby,” replied
Alice, winding her arms closer around
me, “we’ll never doubt each other. Our
dearest hopes are anchored in the great
sea of the world; but they will remain
steadfast. Oh! we’ll never be estranged,
Ruby.”
“Never!” i echoed, and, yet through
the mazes of the forest, there seemed to
float a voice, strangely mournful, repeat
ing that vow of eternal friendship, breath
ing a warping for our sanguine hopes, a
knell for our parting hour.
Alas! how slowly, how sadly, have
the years past since then, for doubt and
mistru-t gliding in severed that sacred
chain where we thought it was the strong
est. We met again in after years, but
the world—the world had taught us how
to crush the wild, wayward throbbings of
our hearts. We were living —and yet
dead; living as the breath giveth life,
yet dead to all the gentler influences, the
holier emotion of that love once so dear
to us. And the youthful years that had
shadowed us so kindly with their wings,
withdrew to weep over the ashes of our
former friendship.
* * * *
The fire was gleaming faintly in the
chimney, my reverie was ovei—and yet
I felt so sad, so lonely, sitting there. I
thought I felt a soft touch upon my shoul
der —heard a gentl9 voice whispering a
name of other years —Ruby ! I was glad
someone had said it; it was a sweet re
menibrance in a time of sorrow. Some
body whispered loving words, somebody
knelt beside me and pressed a soft cheek
to mine. I returned the pressure —I
wept, yet I knew not why. I only re
member that Alice was kneeling there
beside me, my own Alice, and that we
were friends again.
It was so sweet, so strangely sweet, to
have her there as of old, the same love
light in those kindly eyes, the same holy
beauty resting on that placid brow, I
fancied that it was all a dream, and I
dared not move, lest the entrancing spell
should b:eak.
That joyful meeting is marked forever
with a “morning star” in the heaven of
my existence. And now, each budding
hope, each undefined fear, give I hence
forth to the sacred keeping of our Father,
our Protector, and our God.
In the hushed and holy stillness of the
night, when the stars and flowers keep
watch over earth, and every soul ascends
on trembling wings to the Throne of
Him above, I fall asleep quietly to dream
of the angels and of Alice Faye.
Even so hath He ordained, that w’e
shall give a smile for every new sunbeam
born to the earth, a tear for every blos
som untimely withered.
For every heart hath a sunlight, every
onl a shadow.
CAUGHT IN THE FACT.
A certain notable housewife had ob
• rvod that her stock of pickled cockles
1, 1 '.,as running remarkably low and spoke
to the cook in consequence, who alone
had access to them. The cook’s charac
ter was at stake ; unwilling to give warn
ing with such an imputation on her self
denial, not to say honesty, she neverthe
less felt that confidence between her mis
tress and herself was at an end. One
day the jar containing evanescant condi
ment being placed, as usual, on the dres
ser, while she was busily engaged in bas
ting a joint before the fire, she happened
to turn suddenly round, and behold, to her
great indignation a favourite magpie,
remarkable for his conversational powers
and general intelligence, perched by its
side and dipping its beak down the open
neck with every symptom of gratifica
tiont. The mystery was explained—the
thief detected. Grasping the ladle of
scalding grease which she held in her
hand, the exasperated cook dashed the
whole contents over the hapless pet, ac
companied by the exclamation —“Oh,
d—e, you've been at the pickled cockles,
have you ]” Poor Mag, of course, was
dreadfully burnt; most of his feathers
came off, leaving his little round pate,
which had caught the principal part of the
volley, entirely bare. The poor bird
moped about, lost all spirits, and never
spoke for a year. At length, when he
had pretty w T ell recovered, and was be
ginning to chatter again, a gentleman
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