Written for the Young Lady's Friend. Is it a fearful thing to love what death may touch? BY MRS. REBECCA W. THAYER. ALL the visible works of God are destined to decay. The truth of this is written within and without us. If we look within, we learn that the current of life will cease to flow, and the mysterious machinery which it propels, will cease to move. If we gaze upon the earth beneath, we behold the loveliest flower parting with its beauty at the touch of time, "for the wind passeth over it and it is gone." Or if we look upward to the heavens, we behold written as by the finger of God," the heavens shall be rolled together as a scroll, and the elements melt with fervent heat." Thus on every side we behold the emblems of mortality.. And yet our affections. cling to these dying objects, even while they are fading from our view. Hence, this question naturally forces itself upon our minds, is it a fearful thing to love what death may touch? To answer this question in the affirmative, would make our earth-bound lot extremely gloomy. It would alloy that pure friendship which binds heart to heart, and diminish that sympathy which now unites friends so closely, that all their hopes like "kindred drops are mingled into one." Beside, it does not follow, that, because the objects of our affections are transitory, it is therefore a fearful thing to love them, provided we do not love them supremely. It is true, that disappointed affection may sometimes overshadow the spirit with a gloom, but, more frequently in the course of nature, it teaches us a lesson of submission and peace. If it is not a fearful thing to commune with perishing objects in ordinary life, then it cannot be fearful to place our affections upon them. Nor is it easy to conceive that a beneficent Creator would command us to love one another, and at the same time connect fearful consequences with the exercise of that love. Fearful consequences may sometimes follow, but who can believe that they follow immediately from the relation which God has established between our affections, and the perishing nature of the objects upon which they are fixed? The wild ivy may climb "the old gnarled oak," which may soon be 18 IT A FEARFUL THING TO LOVE WHAT DEATH MAY TOUCH? 115 shivered by the lightning or uprooted by the storm; but who, as he views the consequent destruction of both, would forget the desolating work of the tempest, and upbraid the running vine for throwing its tendrils around the giant tree? Suppose it was deeply impressed upon our minds, that fearful consequences might follow from loving the objects of this world. We should look abroad over nature's landscape, variegated with unnumbered lovely scenes with comparative indifference, if not with shuddering emotions. The verdant hills would, in a measure, lose their attractions; the green valleys would cease to charm; the murmuring rill would no longer lend its music; the placid lake would reflect no beauteous ray from the setting sun; nor would the smiling flowers, which waft their fragrance on every breeze, delight us with their blushing hues. Nor is this all. The loveliest form which human nature has ever assumed, would excite our admiration only to increase our fears. The lovelier the object, the greater the fear of placing our affections upon it. But this conclusion, to which we are brought by the consideration that it is a fearful thing to love what death may touch, is contrary to experience. We have all numbered among our companions in life many esteemed friends. The strongest ties have bound our hearts to theirs. We have rejoiced with them in joy; we have wept with them in sadness; and yet they have gone down to the grave while our affections were burning with the vigor of youth. And though deeply affected by their removal, yet we have never dreamed it was a fearful thing to love them. We know that they and all must die; that the language of the poet is true: "Though our hearts are strong and brave, Still like muffled drums they're beating Go ask the aged parent, who has parted with his last earthly hope, if he has learned from experience, that, to love is a fearful thing! Go ask the same of the afflicted husband, who has laid the partner of his joys and sorrows in the silent tomb! Go ask the youthful lover who bends his stricken form over the dead idol of his heart, and mourns that the bright vision of love and beauty is gone so soon! Go, inquire of all, bereaved by the loss of friends, and the saddened heart will give back the response, there is bliss in friendship's tears, there is joy even in mourning for our dying friends. Let us turn to the example of HIM who loved what death may touch more than sinful mortals can! HE visited the grave of a friend. Though dead, "He loved him still." HIS HE affections went out after him, though he was silent in the dust. And while two afflicted sisters stood weeping at the grave, JESUS also wept. Amazing love! The SAVIOUR of the world weeping over the remains of death! What an example of sympathy and love, dear to afflicted man! Had HE deemed it a fearful thing to love a friend, even though dead, HE might have reproached the spirit of sympathy which pours relief into the sufferer's lacerated heart while in the house of the dead. HE might have bid the gushing tear be dry, and locked up the tender feelings of the soul in unbroken silence. But it was not so. The evidence of HIS strong affection was so convincing as to call forth the exclamation from the unfeeling Jews, "behold how he loved him." Ashland, Mass., Oct., 1849. THE THREE CALLERS, BY CHARLES SWAIN. MORN calleth fondly to a fair boy straying Mid golden meadows, rich with clover dew; She calls but he still thinks of nought, save playing; And so she smiles, and waves him an adieu! While he, still merry with his flowery store, Deems not that Morn, sweet Morn! returns no more. Noon cometh - but the boy, to manhood growing, With the thin fire-light, flickering faint and low O'er pleasures gone – as all Life's pleasures go. the "Too young! too young!" ejaculated our excellent friend, Doctor, as he sat one evening, comfortably enough, with arms crossed, feet upon the fender, and eyes fixed musingly upon the glowing coals. "It is a fault which time is sure to cure," said we. "Too young! too young!" he repeated again, never heeding the consolation we had ventured to give. "Too young for what, uncle?" asked Charlotte, her curiosity becoming quickened; "please tell us, too young for what?" "To be married, child! Jane is too young to be married.” There was a sorrowfulness in the Doctor's tone, which caused us to look up. "But Burton is such a fine fellow, and every body says it is such an excellent match, and all that, you know, uncle." "All that! yes, I know all that," he cried quickly. "I say she is too young, for all that." 66 Eighteen is young," said I, willing to humor his opinion, thus pertinaciously advanced; "but, Doctor" 1 "No buts, if you please! the thing needs no qualification ;" (the Doctor was unusually emphatic.) "Charlotte, don't you marry until you are, at least, twenty-five; if you do, the chance for happiness is against you; be sure, child, that it will be." "Now, why? uncle, why? Franklin was in favor of early marriage. There surely cannot be anything in the nature of things against it; then, uncle, what is your objection?" Charlotte had the best reason in the world for not agreeing with the old gentleman. "My objection is in the nature of things; the nature of things now-a-days is against it; that's my objection;" the old gentleman looking very convincingly. But assertion certainly did not prove a convincing argument in Charlotte's estimation, who looked up from her work with a "don't-believe" smile, and shook her curls with the air of a Tudor. Mary wanted just one month we married. She had just "I will explain, I suppose I must explain," said he, turning his chair toward the table. Young people do not now receive the opinions of their elders as they used to; they must have reasons and all that this comes of all this education, I suppose. But I must go back to my Mary. and five days of eighteen, when been introduced into society, and was lovely and admired. Everything looked beautiful to her, she enjoyed all things, she hoped for all things, she expected all things. We married, unwisely enough, and her mother told us so; but were young, and too confident to trust to others. Then came house-keeping, cares and children, and they went hard with my Mary, and in spite of all our comforts she began to talk wearily of life. She often cried too, in secret. I saw it, and it cut me to the heart. One time I overheard her say, "Oh, don't marry, Fanny! you do not know what is before you; you have no cares now, enjoy yourself, while you can; troubles will come full soon." I sighed, and hurried away; yet, Mary had a husband devoted to her, and we had no more than a common share of the perplexities of life, but the fact was, she had married too young; she had not lived long enough to see that life had a dark side as well as a bright one; and when the shadows come, as come they must to all of us, whether married or single, she thought it was married life which caused them all, and she came to look upon the past with longing, upon the present with only a constant sense of its burdens, and upon the future with dread. Had Mary lived five, seven, or ten years longer, before her marriage, she would have gained that wise experience of life, which would have taught her that maiden life is not exempt from its peculiar trials, burdens and perplexities, and that in becoming a wife, she was not to step from one degree of happiness to a higher, but from one state of trial and discipline to another; not until a woman feels this is she fit to be married. "Like my Mary, many others have I seen sink early beneath the weight of untimely cares," (here a tear gathered in the Doctor's eye, which he hastily brushed away,) "fancying their lot is hard, because they have never experienced the evils and perplexities of any other. Live long enough, Charlotte, a single |