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Egyptian darkness, had light in their would have been Friend. But now the dwellings; you, amid all the harsh dis- utter misery of that being, who must, in cords of life, might have had music in his never-ending unquiet, in his awful yourself. Alas! for the little rift.' writhings, produce ruin, and only ruin.
The little sin, do not neglect it- I can pity him. He who has heard the 'It is the little, pitted speck in garnered fruit, strains of the angels must dwell amid That, rotting inward, slowly moulders all.' eternal discords, he whose eye has been The little sin, do you know the regret
, forever mingle with terrible shapes. Was
familiar with the beauty of heaven must finally remorse, its reverberation? The
he not pitied by his great biographer, echo of a pistol, fired on one of the lakes in the Bavarian Highlands, is, at first, era-obscura, a darkened chamber, on the
Milton-Milton, whose mind was a cambut a low mutter, then ‘it gathers along wall of which was pencilled, by a ray of the cliffs like a gradual roll of thunder, heaven's own light, all celestial beauty ; increasing in volume till it breaks over while a gleam shot from hell, threw there the head in a deafening crash, louder
hell's horrid imagery. He more than than the broadside of a ship-of-the-line.'
pitied him—his Satan was subjective.
It seems that God HIMSELF could pity Satan.
that soul that, like the ocean, forever Only supreme in misery
holds in its depths untold treasures that All good to me is lost. Evil, be enrich it not. thou my good.'
It was a strange fancy of the Dark Why on this beautiful day, when the Ages—the incarnation of the Devil as a 'blue sky, like God's great pity,' holds "mild, ruminant, graminiverous elf, that in its bosom soft, fleecy clouds, like the 'cannot devour' us, unless we are literexhalations from a poor earthly heart; ally—as the Scriptures say all flesh iswhen the mountains are beautiful, and grass. How grandly Milton's Satan looms hazy, and shadowy-heaven's color deep- up by the side of this grotesque clumsiened with earth's — like the Christian's ness. horizon, where earth and heaven really How many good people avoid mentionmeet; when the grasshoppers are chirp- ing the common name of this individual, as ing their song of rest, and all is peace; though it were blasphemous to say devil. why should I dwell on that personation One would think that, like the Yeziof despair, that "God's great pity' bends dis, they are devil-worshippers. I shall not over, shut in by adamantine rocks of call him devil; what cares he, the chof evil, of hatred, of obstinacy, from all in- d'ouvre of the ALMIGHTY, the 'star of Auence of the sweet heavens, exhaling the morning,' that dared stand alone unonly blighting curses in his tremendous awed, almost in the PRESENCE unveiled, unrest, shaking and destroying earth's while the others ‘hid their diminished most pleasant places, or fooding them heads;' what cares he by what name with his own hot misery? No hope, no human pigmies may curse him? Yes, I peace, no songs of rest for that utterly shall call him devil, though he may be miserable one. Is he not the centre, the leering over my shoulder as I write. He ever-raging nucleus of this earth of ours? can probably even read my writing; he Can you not pity him, though he must has had a hand in penning most paraever bear the name Enemy- the name graphs, articles, books, rolls, parchments, which he received at his terrible baptism in engraving mostinscriptions, (even some by immersion in the floods of eternal on tomb-stones,) since the art of writing woe. Whatever, to the shining ones, by pictures, by hieroglyphs, or by letmay have been the signification of that ters, was known; he has now all over the angelic name, now never pronounced in writing world busy writing mediums;' heaven-to us, had he not first fallen, it various are his styles to suit his readers,
an odor of brimstone for coarse, an the real — 'walking through dry places, 'odor of sanctity' for refined olfactories. seeking rest and finding none,' did you Should he now make a 'medium' of me, say? I see you retain your old knack at and, with my hand and pen, write his quoting Scripture. That volume of the own life, beginning far back before he Rev. -'s sermons on the dusty cover lost his place among the stars of the of which you have left your sign-manu morning,' what a record would it be; as al, probably would be dry to you. What beautiful and grand as heaven, as gloomy a gleam of pleasure lights up your fine and bitter as hell. What are our petty face as you glance over the colums of joys and miseries to his, in their sublime that New-York daily ; you, perhaps, heights and depths ?
recognize some of your innumerable proHe may be near me invisible, he has geny. I am glad to see such a manidoffed his cowhide, (perhaps bequeathed festation of parental affection. Look it to some tyrannical father or school- further, you will see a wash-stand; you master.) I could not have heard the know, you never particularly objected clatter of his hoofs on the stairs — they to a clean outside. I am, indeed, anxwere long since shed — they may ve ious to conciliate you: turn your eyes been handed down by some New-Eng. from the bed where I have so often slept land witch as heir-looms to her great full of rest from head to foot.' You great granddaughter, and now, shod frown so, I fear you did n't rest well last with felt, may be hidden beneath cri- night; and that sigh, perhaps you cannoline and balmoral. I could almost not breathe freely in our atmosphere; swear that, the other day, I saw the yonder hangs a match-safe, light a tips of one peep from under Mrs. —'s bunch of the matches, they may imskirts; but it was so quickly withdrawn, prove the air. Yes, they are called like a turtle's head, that I am not, after lucifer
matches! You are thinking of all, quite positive that it was there. If another kind. Is it possible that your I should ever be called upon to give tes- commanding intellect can stoop to a timony in regard to it in a court of jus- pun, and a borrowed one at that? Turn tice, say, for instance, in a divorce case, towards the bureau, there stands a camI shall look into those heavenly blue phor-bottle. Ahl now you grin, it is eyes, and remember only angels that merrily suggestive of toothache; (have never wore the disgusting livery. you an affection of the facial nerves that
Why do I furtively glance over my you can't smile ?) how the grin broadens shoulder; what if he is here, my room as your eye rests on the looking-glass, is not such an Eden that he need throw you probably think that can yield me into it the seeds of his own misery. no very comforting reflections. Sir, you Come, old fel-, I beg your pardon, I are getting obtrusive ; like many other meant to say, 'Gentleman of the old 'gentlemen of the old school, you are school,' look around, you see my furni- rather tedious. Bon jour, Monsieur, I ture is of the plainest sort, on an ink- will not say à dieu our blessing is a stained table, a writing-desk containing devil's curse - this, alas! is the misery a few trifling scribblings that could n't of miseries — there is no God to whom harm you, by its side a few books—you you would be commended. What! not who have dipped so deep in lore cannot going yet? I hate to be uncivil — but begrudge me them-a volume of Shak- avaunt ! Get thee hence!! Skedadspeare, which even you might read with dle!!! I beg your pardon, you need interest, your own celebrated biography not extend your hand, for though no by John Milton, a few novels, and so on, hoof — on the contrary, a soft, velvety all indicating the unrest of a soul vainly paw -I fear the claws, for, after all endeavoring to escape the present and your fine names, you are still the ‘Old Scratch. Ah! you are going, you hear breath and color have been exhaled and your gong, the cannon, and hasten to a reflected. Now that perfume is to me feast of carnage.
but a sigh from those glad spring days,
when, in my first rambles in the woods, The First and the Last-Trailing .Arbu- with my first friends, I tore it from the tus-Lobelia or Cardinal Flower.
earth, with its rich mould clinging to it. Texts taken from no inspired or unin- First friends, did I say-can I forget the spired human writer, translated from no friend first of all, and dearest of all, 'original tongue' - God's utterances in so early taken from me, that yearning His own language, which, in its beautiful thoughts and a mound in the grave-yard simplicity, may be understood by you and are all that is left to me of that dear one. me without an interpreter; yet, in the But from the rich mould of a mother's sublime depths of the thoughts express- grave blossoms sweet remembrance ed, unfathomable by an archangel. perhaps an angel has breathed into it
It is as emblems, or from their asso- its perfume--sweet it is as the Arbutus, ciations, that I have chosen these beau- but no frail spring flower. tiful flowers as texts. First and Last? The first — the first youthful friendthey are among the results of ages of ship terminated only when the friend formations and transformations. Let us had passed through the river beyond the trace these from the shoreless sea,' mist. How now, as I recall it, even the whose ceaseless murmur was heard most mirthful smile that flitted over that alone by those who broke in with a dear face has a depth, an earnestness, chorus of joyful shouts, down through that belongs to all spiritual things — it the upheaving of the first Ararat, on seems as if immortality had crystallized which there was no ark to rest. Think it almost into sadness. The first love, of the long, nightmare sleep of earth, pervading the being, making the whole her agony, her throes under the incubus soul tremulous. The first great sucof waters; think of the seaming, grind- cess, before the vanishing of the morning attrition of glaciers, the centuries of ing dew, that every young heart conlife, death, before she could bear on her denses for itself from the surrounding bosom the sweet, delicate Arbutus, and atmosphere. No wonder poets have the rich, passionate Lobelia.
ever dwelt on the spring-time of life, The Arbutus - whence did she draw the morning when every thing was first. her fragrance and delicate hue? From Butthe rich, dark mould of mingled oak and
The last! the last! the last ! pine leaves, and all the refuse of the Oh! by that little word forest; from the breath of Spring that How many thoughts are stirred! lies shivering with still half-stiffened
That sister of the past!' blood, the drapery of her mother Win- Nature does her last as if she would ter flung off, and yet with but little cov- leave a glowing impression, as if she ering of her own. I cannot tell whether had been but rehearsing for the final from the dusky earth, to which she so performance ; she would be encored. trustingly clings; from the chill air, She is beautiful and strong in her mornwhich she so bravely inhales, she has ings and noons; but she is glorious in drawn her perfume and color, or if she her sunsets; she is sweet and lovely in reflects the delicate tint of the cheek, her springs and summers, but she is and inhales the perfumed breath of gorgeous in her autumns. Like a good some over-bending angel, her own spe- general she has a corps de reserve for the cial attendant. I know the Arbutus is final struggle; you go to bed on a chilly associated in my mind with those first night in October, feeling that Winter, years, when such angels might have the conqueror, is advancing, and that it walked the earth, and thus might their is almost over with her ; you awake the next morning, and lo! she has, in de- ture's last efforts, like the last flickering fiance, flung out all her banners. Alas! of a flame, the collecting in one passion that these glorious ensigns should trail pulsation of the slowly ebbing strength the ground, torn to shreds, with only the of the heart, the seeming reluctance to flag-staffs left.
show weakness, decay. Why, even bleak She is brave, Queen Nature, her last November feels a Summer in her blood as heart-beats are her strongest. The she weds Winter, covering her face with Anemone, pale as if the first feeble a bridal-veil of haze. pulsations of that heart sent snow into Queen Nature, we will imitate thee, her veins — the faintly-flushed Arbu- we will never say die'-life, full life, to tus — the delicate spring-beauty, before the last. If go down we must, it shall the pulses have fairly begun to play, be with our colors flying; our last effort then the even, regular beatings that give shall be our best; our last soul-pulsathe steady color to the Rose—then those tion our fullest, strongest. Night may last throbs that send the rich blood into spread the pall over us, but we will lie the Cardinal flower. There is something down with our royal robes about us. sadly magnificent in this richness of Na
BY AGNES LEONARD, (MOLLY MYRTLE.)
I hear the sound of the distant rain
Come slow and solemn over the hill,
With a moan and a sob like an Autumn rill,
And the night comes on with its dark and chill.
O passionate heart! lie still — lie still!'
Pale lips, put by your painful quiver ;
And forget the woe of your maddening shiver;
And sing like a gladsome river.
O restless ghosts of the hopes I've lost !
O gathering gloom of the graves far down!
O deep heart-shadows heavy and brown!
Are ye my womanhood's crown?
THE BLUE OVERCOAT; OR, LOVE AND WAR.
Of all the favored firelights that it had been a heart and the needle & crackle, dart, or gleam, make pleasant dart; the child's bright eye marking pictures, dry idle tears, and hush weary every motion, his soft palms still spread sighs, this was the brightest, warmest, out to the heat. At last the girl's long most noisy. The , hearth was newly lashes swept slowly up in a dreamy swept, the blinds closed, the chairs ar- fashion; her glance travelled beyond the ranged at graceful angles, and a table watcher on the rug, and fastened in the brought forward, from which the shad- bed of glowing embers; the needle, no ed lamp shed mellow glory like that longer furious, contemplatively pricked Murillo hangs round his baby-heads. her forefinger. As she gazed, a mildew In the brightness of the halo sat a girl, seemed creeping over her bloom, the one past the awkward era, yet hard- mildew of despair. Suddenly her head ly dignified; stateliness and playfulness went down on her clasped hands, and contending for mastery in her face made she moaned, would have groaned, but a the fair tourney-ground a mystery and a woman cannot. Yes, plump and rosy, charm. It was after supper, but there dressed like a fashion-plate, with her was nothing of that complacent expect- elaborate braiding-work in her lap, she ancy in her air which well-dressed clutched her brow and moaned; then young ladies with gentlemen friends springing up, she pounced upon the usually wear at this blissful hour. She small boy with an expression worthy of was braiding some garment for a child, the Maid of Saragossa, and bore him off and following the pattern, she tossed it to the regions of chaos without, from about with impatient haste, her white whence he returned in the course of hands slipping in and out like lightning. half an hour quite tamed down by an
Her head, with all its short, crépé application of soap and clean apron. locks breaking the light into ripples, With him came his mother, a pale, sewas erected in a rebellious way; her rene woman, in a mourning dress. She chin advanced in pretty defiance; her sat down on the other side of the lamp, eyelids slightly contracted, as though and began knitting, while the child she looked at Fate's relentless face and stretched at her feet watched the young. cried: 'Frown on! you have done your er lady with fearful eyes. She was not worst.'
silent long; she sighed, leaned back, The door opened, admitting a clatter gazed wistfully at a picture on the of dishes, the voices of servants, the wall — a picture called Summer Shades, turning of keys in locks, the command- an embodiment of coolness and reposeing tones of the mistress giving her last blue water, lazy cattle, mighty trees; a orders. It closed, and again all was figure extended like a lotus-eater on a peace. A child came forward within bed of amaranth. the radiant semi-circle, and stood with * What a good time that fellow has, back to the blaze, its hands Napoleon- Henry!' ically crossed behind, and the face, with * Has he ?' said Henry, still watching all its mosaic work of dirt in fine relief, her face as a dweller under the shadow turned upon the worker. Supper seemed of Vesuvius watches its summit. to have been rather imbibed than eaten; Aunt, I am tired.' brow, chin, and apron were still doing •You have sewed too much to-day,' their work.
said the aunt sympathetically. The sewer went on twisting and *Sewed too much!' she cried, thrusttransfixing the gay delaine, as though ing out her arm like a pugilist. 'I wish