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[Written for the Southern Field »nd Fireside.]
THE LOST PLEIAD.
Mr Dear Mr. Gardner—
The original of the following poem was written between
my eighteenth and twentieth year. It was one of those
• fortunate productions which found popular favor. But it
did not satisfy myself As it has been among the occa
sional employments of my matnn r years, to revise and
improve such productions of my youth, as seemed to me
to deserve the effort, this, of the Lost pleiad, commended
to me by the favor which it found, as well as by its sub
ject, has necessarily compelled my consideration. A re
cent application from a corresiamdent, seeking my auto
graph, and asking a copy of the original ppem. has re
minded me of the later rt-a*ctn*wn ; and as it has never
been re-published, I deem it a proper contribution to
vour periodical, in compliance with yonr request. It is
always a perilous experiment, upon a production which
has already found favor with the public, to attempt its
amendment* IU very faults have possibly become fa
vorites; and the mind—happHy for humanity—is unwil
ling to give sip an old Mend because of his faults, and
exchange him for another of even more certain character.
We are apt to become sturdy champions of that which
we gratefully remember; and it is probable that, with
most of those who knew the “ Lost Pleiad,” in my youth
ful version, there will be much unwillingness to accept
any substitute, however excellent. But, more than one
generation has sprung into existence since the early pub
lication of the poem, who have never seen it, and will
entertain no prejudices In respect to it. To these, them
I commend the present version; while I entreat the for
. bcaranco of those who have been pleased to accept the
original with favor. That has been preserved in my
published collection, and may still satisfy its early ad
mirers. This may possibly appeal to a new class, and
will, I trust, prove not less successful than the original,
in finding favor with its readers. I confess to preferring
it myself. Yours, very truly,
W. Gilmore Simmes.
Woodland «, S. C., April 15,1559.
v i.
Not in the sky—no longer in the sky.
Where, beautiful as high,
She swayed serene,
The centre of her circle and Its Queen-
Most bright of alt her happy sisterhood,
And by all bright ones woo'd!—
Secure of homage from fond eyes, that brood,
Nightly, in spheres below;
Who, looking with deep longing, feel their wings
With each pulsation grow;
Feel, with the yearning for Immortal things.
The strength for heavenward flight;
And travel far, with fancy, to delight—
Still upward drawn by the sweet welcoming eyes
That showed them, first, the skies!
n. .
Gone from the skies! In vain
We seek her beauty through the ethereal plain.
And the far blue of its mysterious deep.
No more —no more I
Shall Oeean, in the mirror of her sleep,
Give back the beauteous image to our gaze !
And, In our sod amaze,
We turn from sky to sea, from sea to shore;
And, as the white caps of the glistering wave
Flaah, as with gems east up from Ocean's cuve.
Wo start, with Joyful cry;
We dream the beautiful Queen once more on high,
The bright one of the aky!
Alas'. the fond illusion! It is o'er!—
Not even the sovereign Fancy may restore
Our sovereign to her throne! We must go weep,
That the Bright Wutchcr may no longer keep
Her sphere, at summons of the adoring eye!
m. I.
Gone t Gone!
From sky and earth, from mount and sea!
There is a void of Beauty! Never more
Shall rise the chaunt from forest home or shore;
The sweet fond homage of most worshipping eyes,
That swim in sorrow, gazing on the skies,
Where vacancy makes eminent tho void!
llow lone! How lone! How lone!
The bright"it of all the brightest ones destroyed!
The lesser loveliness that still is left,
But shows the greater glory in the Lost!
Os this, the Ont, bereft,
We are usvuen at sea, by tempests tost,
Looking out vainly for the one true star,
Worth all the llost, to teach us where we are!
• iv.
% Men need their beacons all!.
Their stars and guiding lights, to save from thrall;
And something dearer, shining from above,
To teach them where to look, and how to love !
For we all love 1
We arc hut children on the Desert! Some
Never reach home!
Others, for yet a thousand years will roam.
Lacking sonic starry pilot of the sky;
And so they droop along the path, and die
Os a drear blindness, never opening eye 1
Thou wast the Eye to many—dear to most;
As central, and the fairest of Heaven's host!
Thou wast their boast!
Oh! did'st thou grow thine own ?
Thou wast their thing of worship and of pride—
By their devotion fed, and deified!
Did'st thou forget ? and had'st thou to atone ?
Wo know that thou art gone;
Hast left thy sapphire throne;
And, never again to cheer
The Mariner, w'ho holds his course alone
On the Atlantic, through the weary night,
When common stars turn watchers, and do sleep.
Shalt thou appear
Over all others bright,
With the sweet, loving certainty of light.
Down-shining on the shut eyes of the Deep I
v.
Shall the sky lose
Her glory, and the ungrateful Earth refuse
Her lamentation]' Shall the Beauty port
- From Nature, and the great void of the heart •
Have never a ministry of Love, whose tear
Shall soothe the suffering, and subdue the fear?—
Bring precious nurtiuy to the Hope that lies,
'■Buried and perishing fast, beneath our eyes?
no resjionsive wail •
Fro»Bie defrauded elements prevail.
When Nyjht is shorn of Beauty, and the Day
Palsied, go% staggering on his sullen way ?
It is not so permiWjj—g o decreed;
• At each great loss, tliWorld's great heart must bleed;
Must feel the throes o^g U i s h, and deplore
The vacancy it feels fore%unore;
Anil cannot, by its prayer,
Or passionate plaint, restore
For the first time, aware \
Os that wan spectre, whom we call^Lgpalr!
Thus Borrow broods along the lonely!™*
And wilder griefs go surging through tli^ipods;
llow vexed the chiding of the little rills, V
How dread the murmur in the mighty woodsrV
In night and silence each sad fountain fills N,
Her cistern; and a Spectral Presence broods
Blackening their waters! Through the unhallowed air
Steals a stark, shuddering Fear,
That cowers and crouches ever as it goes,
As dreading ambushed Foes;
Without the feet to fly,
The heart to cry I
VII.
Sec, as the Day is spent,
The Arab leaves his tent;
Well hath he conn'd, of stars, the mystic lore;
His studies teach,
A mortal Fate in each.
vws - rowwM nn> am fi&ksxhk.
Pledged, at each several birth,
To some lone Pilgrim of the benighted Earth,
That shows the path and guides him evermore!
So, too, the shepherd on Chaldea's hills
At evening, home returning, with his flocks,
Looks, from his perilous heights, along the rocks,
For the one star whose smiling preference fills
His soul with Faith and Rapture—glads his gaze
With promise of protection, sweet as sure!
But now, no beauties blaze,
No smile comes sudden with a sweet surprise!
Vainly he strains his eyes,
For the soft glory that made clear his ways!
Much doth he marvel, in the saddest maze,
While through the sorrowful vault the Dark distils
Her dews that blight
Lingers in longing ; dreaming yet that Night
Will surely bring the expected and sweet light
So natural to his sight
VIII. #
Nor earth alone!
Nor man! The sorrow broods
Above the rocks, the plains, the rills, the floods,
Afar! afar!
In realms of Sun and Star I
1 There, glorious Beings, each njem his throne,
.Join in the common moan!
There, where at first she shone
Radiant among the sisterhood, the wail
Streams nightly on the gale!
Well may they chaunt, in melancholy tone!
How should they dream, until her fate was known,
That such as they are confiscate to Death?
Thut Fate and dark oblivion should prevail,
The Perfect and the Beautiful to mar?
That, like the creatures of far lowlier spheres—
The common blooms of earth —
Beings of mortal breath.
As mortal birth—
The seraphs should be blasted; doom'd to fears;
Lose all their rich effulgence, sink In years;
Sudden extinguish'd in some fatal hour;
Flash even in falling, and with meteor rush,
Sweep down their summits, ail one glorious gush;
Then the dread darkness, and the horrid hush!
And this without one omen to prepare;
Even while the song floats free in pride and power,
And liquid echoes linger in the air,
That shows all peaceful on the eternal heights!
Oh! in the very midst of dear delights,
And dreaming never of such dread mischance,
The heavens nfiush with congregate forms and wings
That swim together in twlring maze and dance,
While some superior seraph sits and sings;
Even then the wild, deep wall! From where ? Oh!
There! there! [where?
Over the precipice!
Far down the black abyss!
A flash! a glory*shed from golden plumes,
Tho Stygian depth illumes—
A moment—and but one!
The gnlph's black billows o’er a sister roll,
And a dread shudder shakes each kindred soul,
Down-gazing, in their horror, as they see!
All their concerted springs of harmony
Snapt rudely—all the generous music gone,
And dread and terror now, where joy alone
Made all felicity!
And shall there be no moan ?
IX.
Oh! still the strain,
As of fresh sorrows, wuiling through the sky,
Repeats the sad refrain—
Soui-chaunting, and soul-wakening melody;
The sister stars, lamenting in their pain,
That one of the selcetest ones should die;
Tom from the rest,
When loveliest, happiest, best;
Blessing and blest;
When her own song was sweetest, and her eye,
Brightest of all on high!
That such as she should full,
Headlong, in all the beauty of her bright,
From the empyreal grandeur of her height;
Over such precipice;
Down, to such drear abyss,
The depths of fathomless night;
May well be life-long terror to them all!
x.
Alas! the Destiny
Clogs ever the possession with a Fear!
That haunting sense of Insecurity,
Makes every treasure of the heart, a care!
Even as we ery,
“ Eureka! Soul be joyful! It is here !"
The bitter, mocking echo, makes reply,
“Where? Where? 0! where?’’
And the storm sweeps our starbeam from the sky!
Thus, fastened to the bosom of the Bliss,
Clings ever a sad caprice!
We snatch the flower above the precipice,
And fall in snatching. Our free footsteps miss,
While our hands clutch—and, with the treasure won,
We are undone!
In very Rapture, a sharp Terror abides;
Her song-burst carries anguish in its tone;
Like the deep murmur of the swelling tides,
Though full and bright, •
No cloud in sight.
The glorious Moon, in smiles, o'er ocean glides!
The Hope most precious is the soonest lost!
The flow'r of Love is first to feel the frost!
Methinks. ail beautiful, of earthly things,
First die; and little doth it then console,
To know, tint it hath pnt on heavenly wings,
And is already shining in its goal!
We only feel—'tis gone! forever gone!
The blessed thing we've known:
And we are lone—how lone! How very lone!
Ah! like the bright star shooting down the sky,
Was it not loveliest as it fell from high,
And, darkling, left the sphere, .
Now cold and drear,
It ever made so beautiful and dear!
The Secret of Good Writing.— We are at
first to impart knowledge, says Dr. Clianning,
then to export it. Write daily and elaborately,
if only for one hour. * Avoid verbiage, do not
multiply, but select your words, and lop off redun
dancies as you would scatter chaff. In the hands
of a writer who adopts these precepts, a multi
tude of words is not verbiage, because each
gives some now view, or adds to the effect of the
old. There is a splendor in his strength, and a
strength in his splendor, because there is a
weight as well as brightness in the metal. Noth
ing so fixes and consolidates your views on any
subject as this practice.
.Origin of Familiar Phrases. —The term
“ masterly inactivity ” originated with Sir James
Mackintosh. “ God tempers the wind to the shorn
lamb,” which every one who did not suppose it
was in the Bible credited to Sterne, was stolen
by him from George Herbert, who translated it
from the French of Etienne. “ The cup that cheers
but not inebriates” was '‘conveyed’’ by Cooper
from Bishop Berkley, in his “Sirs." Wonls
worth's “ The child is father of the man ” is traced
frqm him to Milton, and from Milton to Sir
Thujas Moore. “ Like angeCs visits, few and far
the offspring of Hook: it is not
original thought. Old John
Norris (16||l used it, and after him Robert Blair,
as late as lT%c “ There's a gude time coming,”
Scott’s phrase Rob Roy,” and “ The almighty
dollar " is
Kindnesses are stowed away in tho heart like
rose leaves in a drawer, ko sweeten every object
around then*.
[Written for the Southern Fiehl and Fireside.]
TOIL AND^ VICTORY.
BY MISS ANNIE R. BLOUNT.
CHAPTER HI.
“ Flakes of snow
In the air,
Every where
Downward go—"
Pitiless falling
In cariicts of white;
Stout heart appalling
On the black night—
Taking the foot-|irints
Os small naked feet,
That drag along wearily
Down the dark street
“The God, who guides the gilded mom,
And rules the rough awl rolling sea,
Without-a trial ne'er will leave
A soul to evil destiny."
The lamps were lit in brilliant, sparkling rows,
and seemed like friendly watchers as they glim
mered in the distance, like faint, far .sparks.
Theresa sped on, not knowing whither site went,
having a dim, indistinct notion in her child
brain that somebody—“some good Samaritan,”
would take the wanderer in. She still thought
of Mrs. Vinton, but in which one of these splen
did brick mansions, which seemed to her bewil
dered vision like kingly pilaces, or fairy castles,
did her old friend reside ?
On site went, leaving little foot-prints liehind
her, which told a harrowing tale of Suffering and
misery. Sometimes she would meet a kindly
face, and would look up to it with an appealing
glance for' pity and protection —hut the face
would pass on carelessly, and her hopes would
die out, for Hood lias truly sung:
“ Alas! for the rarity
Os Christian charity
Under the sun.
Oh! it was pitiful,
Near a whole city full.
Home she hail none.”
The candy shops were lit up brilliantly—little
children of her own age, muffled in furs, stood
near tho counters, while their parents treated
them to all that pleased their fancy. Beautiful
women clad in silks and jewels, greeted her eyes
from many a window—but none—no, not one
had a kind word for her. From many a bril
liantly lighted room she heard the sounds of
music and dancing; and now and then some
gush of song entranced her music-loving soul;
and, chained with delight, Whilq she forgot life’s
pain and weariness—forgot that she had no
place to lay her head, she would revel in dreams
of happiness, while the sweet notes rose higher
and higher, and seem rooted to tho spot, until
some rough hand would push her away.
Then, recalling her scattered thoughts, she
would move on, jostled by the crowd, and fear
ing to speak to any lest she should meet with a
rude repulse. A baker's shop attracted her at
tention—it was beautifully illumined, and tempt
ing cakes and confections were displayed in
profusion. She was very hungry', not having
tasted food that day, and so she ventured in to
beg, as had been her wont.
“If you want cake, go home to get money to
buy cake,” screamed the shrill voice of the shop
woman.
“ '.ye, aye, there be too many beggars about,”
responded her husband, puffing away at his pipe.
“ But I am very r , very hungry.”
“No concern of ours—work as we do, and
you will have plenty of bread. I never did be
lieve in encouraging wagrants ,” broke in tho
baker?
Tho poor girl moved out, but she had not gone
far when ho followed her.
“See here, didn’t you steal a loaf of bread
from the counter? I miss one, and I think I
hear you munching something as I come up be
hind you; quick, tell me now?”
“I never stole anything in my life—God is
my w itness,” pleaded tho truthful child.
“ Oh! they all say tliat. I ’speet you got it
hid under your shawl now.”
He tore aside the slmwl, but no loaf was
found.
“Oh! perhaps you be innocent; but I great
mind to carry you to the lock-up, anyhow. You
no business strolling about the street this time
o’night—all honest folks is at liopie.”
“Oh! please don’t—please, sir, don’t. I litftn’t
harmed anybody—l won’t harm anybody.”
Ho left her, muttering. “These vagrants be
great pests, anyhow—they be that.”
The snow' was falling pitilessly; and Theresa,
benumbed with cold, ventured up a pair of broad
stone steps, and touched the bell.
A servant appeared: “What do you want, a’
troubling me, you little imp?” and slammed the
door in her face.
She wandered on, growing more weak and
faint every moment:
“Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river.
With many a light:
From window and easement,
From garret to basement, v
She stood,"with amazement,
Houseless by night”
Through the lialf-draw'n curtains of a princely
home she saw little children at play. Hope
grew strong again—she touched the knocker.
“I —I—aint got any home—please can you
tell me where Mrs. Vinton lives ?”
“She lives here,” was the polite answer.
“ Shall I show you in ?”
“Oh, my! Jane, what did you let that little
beggar in for?—giving my nerves a shock they
won’t get over for a week. No, I won’t take
her in—l’m not such a maniac. Show her the
door immediately—there may lie house-breakers
with her.”
Theresa passed out with a stifled sob—it was
not her Mrs. Vinton.
Up and down streets, through by-lanes and
dirty alleys, sped the houseless one—trying first
one place and then another, but nobody would
take her in. One, seemingly a kind hearted wo
man, gave her a slice of bread, but shut tho door
on her. She devoured it eagerly, for she was
half famished; and tben, marking a gentleman
near her, attired in fashionable array and
smoking a cigar complacently, she approached
him:
“Can you tell me where Mrs. Vinton lives?”
He glanced at her queerly, and gave a pro
longed whistle; then looking under her bonnet,
and seeing by the lamp light a pale but won
drously beautiful face, he seemed to change his
mind. He glanced at the lamps around—a lit
tle uneasily, she fancied—and taking her hand,
said, “Yes; come with me.” He whispered a
few words to her; and, bursting into tears, she
murmured: “Oh! no—l am not that—indeed
lam not; lam only a poor little child, who has
no home.”
“A little child! Why, your face looks like
you were twenty, at least. Good-bye—l don’t
know where Mrs. Vinton lives; but if you’ll
“ push along—keep moving,” I dare say you’ll
find her.”
lie went whistling on his way.
Wearied and disheartened—feeling that God
and man had alike forsaken her—Theresa threw
herself on somebody’s steps, with a bitter sigh,
resolved to try no more, but to give up in de
spair. Her limbs were aching with cold—her
bare feet were so cold that she could with diffi
culty move them; and so she sank down, like
a poor wounded fawn, scarcely caring what be
came of her. “Oh! Ido hope I may die—l do
hope I may die right here! The poor and friend
less have no place in this world, and I wish,
oh! I wish that I were dead!”
Presently she fell asleep. It was a sweet
sleep, full of lieautiful visions, for she was slow
ly freezing. It was a beautiful, and yet a heart
rending picture, as she lay there with her white
face turned heavenwards, and resting on an arm
white as Parisian marble, which a sculptor
would have immortalized—blue-veined eyelids,
with long silken eye-lashes falling like a veil on
the tear-wet cheek—and the long, damp locks,
deeply black by tho contrast, floating over the
thin, pale hands.
A voice muttered “ Wlmt in thunder is this?"
It was that of a watchman, who, on his round
of duty, had discovered her just in time; an
hour more, and she would have been dead—her
troubles ended.
“On my life! if it aint a girl—a child almost.
I say, get up, little eretur; you musn’t lie here;
you'll catch your death-a-cold.”
He grasped her by the shoulder. Theresa
started, and robbed her eyes vacantly.
“Why did you disturb me? My sleep was
sweet—l dreamed that I was in heaven with
the angels.”
“And you was a-most there, sure enough,
poor little thing. Where are you going now?”
“I—l don't know. I want to find Mrs. Vin
ton.” The child clung to this as does the drown
ing man to the veriest straw.
N “ She’s easily found, then; for you are right
on her steps this very minute. Let me ring the
bell for you.” And the kind-hearted watchman
lifted her in his arms, carried her to the portico,
and touched the bell.
“ I must leave you now. I guess it will all
be right.” He lingered, as* though reluctant to
leave.
“Oh! yes; thank you, and may God bless
you.” Yet she felt a down-sinking of the heart,
as the only friend she had met in her weary
wanderings disappeared.
Five minutes more, and the wealthy Mrs. Vin
ton looked up from 'her Bible to a tiny, snow
covered girl, who stood before her.
Her little bare feet sank in the soft carpet—a
richly wrought pattern, almost too beautiful to
press with careless tread—and her eyes wan
dered in amazement over the gorgeous paintings
which decorated tho walls—the tempting sofas
and luxurious chairs, the what-nots, divans, and
ottomans—the silken curtains which fell to the
floor in graceful drapery—the rarely wrought
vases, laden with the perfume of choice exotics
—the piano, harp, and guitar, and all else that
may be found in a fashionable parlor.
“.My dear child, you must be frozeu. What
could have brought you out on such a night?
Come closer to the fire—take this chair.”
The gentle words of kindness came to the
soul of that weary one like dew to the drooping
flower. Thej’ unsealed the fountains of her
heart, and for a long time she could not speak
for tears.
“Lady, I have heard of your kindness and
generosity. I am a liouselrts wanderer, with
out money, without friends, without home.” .
“ Seems to me I’ve seen yon before. Don’t
you live in that small house that stands in the
alley near street?”
“ Yes, ma’amand the poor pale face flushed
painfully; “but please don't drivo me away—l
can’t help my mother’s ways. I want to be
good, and I've got no home and nobody to care
for me.”
The child was soffbing as though her heart
would break. Mrs. Vinton removed her silvcr
riramed spectacles, and wiped away the tears
which had dimmed them.
“ I understand it, dear—l understand it all.
Don’t pain yourself by a recital. I have thought
of you, and prayed for you many a time. Yes,
child, my home shall lie your home; and no
body shall ever harm you. While I live”—and
her tones grew emphatic—“you shall never
want a protector. Here, draw closer to the fire,
dry up your tears, and warm your poor, cold
feet.”
The heart of tho childless woman had opened
to the little stranger; and a feeling of love had
been awakened there which could never die.
God, in blessing her with wealth, had given it to
one who knew how to appreciate and use it
properly; and the little old woman, whom some
laughed at, because of her eccentricities, but
whom everybody liked, had that peace of mind
and quiet of conscience which seldom rest be
neath an ermine cape or kingly crown.
“ Now, Rose, bring a cup of tea to my room—
the child must be hungry, after her long walk.”
“ This is your room, little one—see, it joins
mine, and Rose shall sleep in here with you, so
you will not be frightened. It was formerly oc
cupied by my sister Katrine; but she is married
now. All these little fancy articles are speci
mens of her handiwork. That portrait over the
mantel-piece in the parlor is hers—her husband
painted it, for he is a gifted artist, and they re
side in Italy.”
Theresa listened eagerly, and Mrs Hinton for
got that she was talking to a child. Remem
bering herself, perhaps, she said, “ good night,
dear," very kindly; “I hope you will rest well.”
God had not forsaken Theresa. In the hour
of her greatest trial, when the whole world
seemed dark, and heaven was hidden from view,
He raised up for her a friend—the only one of
earth her desolate heart had ever known. Tru
ly God had directed her paths; for when over- :
come by mental and bodily exhaustion, she lay
down on the steps to die, even then rescue was
near. The doors of a comfortable home were
opened to the wanderer; and there, under the
guidance of its mistress, a meek and humble
Christian, the seeds of virtue which God had .
planted in the child’s bosom were destined to j
grow, and bloom, and bear perfect fruit.
CHAPTER IV.
“Isabel is never still
Be it mischief, work, or fun,
Isabel is short uni! brown
Soft to touch as eider down.
With a rosy, laughing mouth.
Checks just tinged with poachy red,
And a graceful llebe head,
Hair put up in some wild way
Decked with a hedge rose's spray.”
’ iIOWITT.
“Mercy and love have met thee oqthy road
Thou wretched outcast.”
Wordsworth.
Theresa called Mrs. Vinton by the sacred title
of mother; and the love she felt for her was that
which the child feels for the being who has given
it birth. Her soul seemed to expand in this new
life; her face lost its hopeless old-womanish ex
pression, aud her step grew light and elastic.—
For the first time in her life Theresa was o child.
She had a pet kitten, a pet dog, and a pet cana
ry. The bird awoko her with its songs every
morning; the dog followed her in her rambles,
and tho kitten—she called it Roderigo in remem
brance of the loved and lost—frolicked around
her when she sat on her little stool of evenings,
readiflg “Robinson Crusoe," and “Arabian
Knights.” She had only one playmate—little
Nettie Vinton—her old friend’s niece, and a lit
tle madcap she was, with a gay, cheerful dispo
sition, and a fine flow of spirits. She broke
"aunt Vinton’s” spectacles; stole ber sugar
lumps ; misplaced the parlor cliaira, and “played
the mischief generally ” with, the prim old lady’s
household.
“Well, auntie, I'm come—where is still
mouth ?”
“ Theresa is up stairs, I believe.”
“ Diving into some stupid old book, I’ll war
rant ; and it such a jolly, nice afternoon too 1—
Can she go out with me ? I’m going down to
the river bank to see the boats come in. Say no
twice, and mean yes —Hip, hip, hurrah!”
And Nettie bounded away, turning over the
lamp on the centre table, and upsetting the chairs
as she went.
“ Come down, still mouth—get your sun-bon
net —I’m off fora walk, and ‘Barkis is willin’,’
as the book says. No, I mean as aunt Vinton says.
Do make haste, for I’m boiling over with impa
tience.”
Theresa soon made her appearance.; and Net
tie said, laughingly, “ auntie does dress you so
old-fashioned.” The two children, throwing each
a kiss to Mrs. Vinton, linked arms, and were
soon out of sight—their young hearts leaping
with joy on finding themselves out in the bright
sunsliine. . •
But Theresa's happiness was of short duration.
She was growing rapidly, and as her education
was very limited, extending no further than to
spelling and reading, it was necessary that she
should go to school. Who has not felt the ter
ror of being a new scholar f Naturally timid and
sensitive, Theresa shrank from observation; and
therefore it was with a heart which trembled and
jwdpitated fearfully, that she listened to Mrs.
Vinton.
‘•You must go to school, dear —my health is
so feeble that 1 cannot give you lessons any
more. I have spoken to Miss Dews-r-a very ex
cellent teacher and a worthy woman—and you
must be ready by next Monday. I know you
will like it, for you like to Study. Nettie goes
to the same school, so you will not be an entire
stranger.
“I will be glad to go,” murmured Theresa.
“There, I knew you would: and I am having
some new dresses and aprons made for you.”
[to be continued.]
■■ hi
[Written for the Southern Field nnd Fireside.]
GRACE ATHERTON;
OR, THE CHm>J)F THE WRECK.
lIY MAUD MORETON.
CHAPTER IV.
“ Like the old oak of the forest,
Down came the thundering mast
Her need is at the sorest.
She shudders in the blast
Hark I to that low, quick, gushing!
lier hold has sprung a leak!
On their prey, the waves are rushing.
The valiant one- grow weak.
* “ One cry, and all is quiet.
There is no sight nor sound
Save the fierce gale at its riot
And the angry waters round.
The morn has come with weeping,
The storm has ceased to blow,
nut the fair “Coquette” lies sleeping
A thousand fathoms low,”
The reflections of John Atherton, as he looked
around him, and saw the almost inevitable fate
that awaited him and the loved ones of his heart,
can better lie imagined, than described. In the
depths of his anguish, the bitterness of self
reproach, the utter helplessness of his situation,
tire desperation of his desires to recall the past,
and overleap the horrible present, nearly mad
dened him. Swift coming fancies of home, the
many duties neglected, the many blessings inad
equately felt, the devoted parental love, but poor
.ly returned, and but too lightly prized: tlxe kind
words he might have spoken; the kind looks he
might have given; the easy deeds of charity he
I might have done to the destitute and needy,
came over his feelings with a stinging distinct
ness—and the words, in early youth so often
pondered, “ Inasmuch as ye have done it, unto
the least of these, ye have done it unto me,”
seemed to fall upon his ear with mournful and
reproachful cadence. Oh! for a single hour to
retrieve the long gone year* Oh! for one sin
gle day to place the beioved wife and child un
der the sheltering love and protecting roof of
his father’s home. •But, worst of all and hardest
to be home, was the meek, helpless look of his
i wife—the calm, heroic devotion that with unpar
| alleled magnanimity suffered her compassion for
her husband’s feelings to prevail over her own
' sense of danger—and the unconsciousness of his
! sleeping daughter, who, unaware of the horrors
! around her, was calmly and softly breathing in
| the deep repose of childhood’s slumbers.
With a love that knows no death, no sleep, no
change in a mother's heart, Mrs. Atherton had
quietly fixed herself by the cot where her child
lay, her hand clasping the passive little fingers
that rested on the cover, and with an utter self
abnegation, and a humble, trusting faith, in
“ Him who ridetli upon the storm,” breathlessly
awaited their terrible fate. AVitlr wonderful fore
thought and presence of ill, she unclasped a
small locket, containing her lmir, the dato of her
inurridpb, name and residence, and placed it
round the neck of the sleeping girl—commend
ing her to Him “who holdeth the waters in the
hollow of his hand, and regardeth the orphan as
the apple of His eye.” She determined not to
awaken her until the danger became too immi
nent to be averted, until fear should become a
horrible reality, thaj she might gather strengtli
in the repose that rested upon her. When there
should be no longer any hope of the vessel hold
ing together, Mr. Atherton determined to place
his wife and child in one of the life-boats, trust
ing to some vessel picking them up—but while
a hope remained of safety, in their present posi
tion, or a chance of relief from some friendly
passing ship, lie resolved to take no rash step, or
risk themselves in so frail a bark upon the swell
ing waters.
The sea was now breaking in on the forepart
of the vessel, and reached the mainmast. The
cabin was filling with water, and wave after
wave was dashing over the ill-fated vessel,
threatening each moment to engulph it. Pres
ently a shriek of terror, vibrating through the
heavens, announced that the dreadful catastro
phe was near at hand. Mr. • Atherton hastily
rushed to his wife, and arousing the tefrified and
bewildered little girl, he drew them after him
with irresistible force. No time now for a-fond
kiss, or farewell words; no time for preparation
to meet their awful doom. The shrieks of
the women nnd children burst at this moment
from every quarter of tip? ship, and rose lamen
tably above the roaring waters. All was hor
ror, confusion and despair. The sailors, roused
to a sense of their danger, rush frantically about
in helpless terror, imploring of heaven and their
fellow-men, succor and safety. No exertions or
authority of the Captain and officers could keep
them quiet, or render them useful and available
at this dreadful crisis. Some climbed the mast,
and ensign staff, and clung there with desper
ation and the hope of ultimate safety. Others,
with a human selfishness and the instinct of
self-preservation, hastily seized and lot down a