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arms: we must all remember, in English history, the calamitous Civil Wars, which lasted for many years, between the red and white roses,—the houses of Lancaster and York. In some parts of France, a rose is the prize of the victor in many a village festival.
The sweet scent of this flower naturally attracted the notice of mankind, and a decoction of the flower-leaves, called rose-water, has been in frequent use; \ "has been employed to sprinkle the interior of religious edifices, and is used in the font at baptisms, by the priests of the Roman Catholic church. But the most beautiful produce of the Rose is the Attar, or Otto, the essential Oil of Roses. The species most usually employed in the preparation of the Attar are two of those represented in the engraving, the Rosa Moschata* and the Rosa Bifera Officinalis.]
The discovery of the Attar is thus fancifully described. A Mogul princess, with that profusion so peculiar to eastern manners, had caused a kind of basin in her gardens to be entirely filled with rose-water, and was amusing herself on its sweet scented waves with the Mogul Emperor. The heat of the sun had disengaged the essential oil from the water which contained it, and it was observed floating on the surface of the liquid, when its powerful odour was soon discovered.
There are two methods of obtaining the Attar. At Tunis, and in Persia, the Musk Rose is employed for this purpose. The rose-leaves are collected, and placed in a wooden vessel, nearly full of the purest water, which is exposed for several days to the heat of the sun; this disengages the essential oil, which floats on the surface of the water; it is then carefully collected by means of a small piece of fine clean cotton-wool, tied to the end of a stick, from which it is squeezed into small bottles, which are afterwards carefully closed. This butter of roses, as it is sometimes called, is of a yellowish tinge, and semi-transparent. It has the property of keeping for a length of time without becoming rancid, and the aroma which it yields is so powerful, that a quantity which would adhere to the point of a needle, is sufficient to perfume an apartment for more than a day.
The second method of preparing it is by distillation. A quantity of fresh roses, say, for example, forty pounds, are put into a still with sixty pounds of water, the roses being left as they are with their calyces, but with the stems cut close; the mass is then well mixed together with the hands, and a gentle fire is made under the still; when the water begins to grow hot, and fumes to rise, the cap of the still is put on and the pipe fixed; the chinks are then well luted, and cold water
* Muak Bow. t Common Garden Rose.
put on the refrigeratory at the top. A moderate fire is kept up, and the distillation continued till thirty pounds of water have come over, which is generally accomplished in about four or five hours. This rose-water is again poured on a fresh quantity of roses, that is forty pounds' weight, and from fifteen to twenty pounds of water are drawn off' as before. The rose-water thus prepared, will, if the flowers have been good, be found highly scented with the essential oil. It is then poured into pans of earthenware, or tinned metal, and left exposed to the fresh air for the night; the Attar or Essential Oil, will be found in the morning, congealed, and floating on the top of the water; this is to be carefully separated and collected, either with athinshellorascummer, and poured into a vial.
The quantity of essential oil to be obtained from the roses is very precarious, as it depends not only on the skill of the distiller, but also on the quality of the roses, and the favorableness of the season. In order to procure as much as three drachms from one hundred pounds' weight of rose-leaves, the season must be very favorable, and the operation carefully performed. The color of the Attar is no criterion of its quality.
From Fisher's Drawing-Room Scrap Book.
YOUTH AND SUMMER.
.Filled with gladness!
Doth not wear a shade of sadness!
Radiant youth! thou art ever new!
All the forest!
Knowing well that joy is surest!
Brighter than the brightest flowers;
From the green earth shall not sever! THE PASTOR.
"But love in man is one deep principle, Which, like a root grown in a rifted rock, Abides the tempest."
There is a certain house, pleasantly situated, about three quarters of a mile from the
village of G , in the north-western part
of South Carolina. It is the parsonage attached to St. Luke's church, which, at a short distance on the opposite side of the road, lifts its light, but beautiful spire, amid the thick graves which surround it. If the reader has ever passed through G—, he cannot but remember the parsonage of St. Luke. It is a simple, cottage-like dwelling; so neat, so unassuming, that the thought ever arises, that this is the abode of peace—its tenant cannot be an ambitious man; he must be good. It looks so retired, so shut out from the noisy world, that an aspiring man would not choose it for his home; and lie who could choose it, would here learn goodness, learn to love that God, who, it always seemed to me, "had sanctified that spot, and so adorned it, that no one could help looking up to Him who made the breath of its flowers incense, and their delicate tints beautiful beyond the master touches of an Apelles.
A long avenue of slender and stately poplars leads up to the garden, within whose neat, white, green-topped pales, luxuriate two gorgeous magnolias, several tall loriodendrons, the ever verdant live oak, and several other clustering trees. About the piazza, clustered the woodbine, the jessamine, and the wild rose. It was apparent that the taste of the inhabitants had been put in constant requisition to render it so delightful and pleasant.
As the day had been burning hot, and the rays of a June sun yet glanced along the white sandy road, I preferred a longer path, which followed the clear, slow brook, at the south, and just as the sun was preparing to dip his broad disk in the west, I opened the gate which led me to the house. Advancing, I was met by an old servant, who, with a noiseless step, led me to the retired room of his master. The door was open, and as 1 entered, the greetings of my friend welcomed me. He did not rise from the sofa on which he was reclining, but extending his thin, white hand, gave my own a gentle pressure, which told his sincere joy at my approach. "Oh," said he, "I am so glad that you have Come at this time. I feel so well that I long for some one to talk with. My reveries have been unusually sweet, and when I am in this mood, my bosom yearns for a kindred spirit to share its thoughts. I have often told you that my life has been a sad one—the cup
which my Father," and he laid a holy emphasis on the word father, "the cup which my Father mingled for me »?as deeply drugged with bitterness—Oh! I have often thought it was too bitter, and before I learned that it was He who mingled the draught, I murmured, nay, I almost cursed its Author. But now, I know it was well—death will soon release me; and now, after so much earthliness and woe, heaven seems so bright; the storm and the tempest which have howled around me, have spent their rage, and now the haven lies before me, clear as crystal—reposing in the calmness of heaven's blue—and I feel as if wafted onward, by the breath of love, to yonder bright world where the weary rest. Yes, where in a few days I shall rest," and he repeated, "where the wicked cease to trouble, and where the weary are at rest." And his countenance beamed with soft and hallowed radiance, which made him look more like a redeemed one—a seraph—than a man.
I was so frequent a visitor at C 's
house, that this apparently abrupt reference to his feelings and prospects of death, seemed not strange. We had often talked about it before, and as I possessed his full confidence, he frequently conversed with me as with another self, so that it all appeared quite natural. The sofa on which he lay had been wheeled round, so as to secure a view of the dying day, and catch the zephyr as it entered the window, loaded with the breath of the fragrant pine. Never did the day depart more gloriously. The sky above was of the deepest blue, while it became fainter and fainter as it approached the tomb of the king of light, and gathering around him, it melted into the oure, silvery whiteness of an angel's robes. Between the tall trees you could see his fiery wheel resting on the earth, while his golden rays shot forth with all the splendor of oriental richness. The clouds were scattered around. There was one almost white, save a gentle tint, such as is only seen to mantle the matchless cheek of innocence and beauty —others of a still deeper hue, and here and there one so wreathed as to gather a hundred shades, from the deep purple to the softest yellow; and over in the. south, there was one, deep and black, whose edges were fiery red, looking like a grim and guilty monster cowering in the presence of Truth.
Wishing to encourage him, I took up only the last idea which my friend had alluded to; I congratulated him on his increased strength and change for the better, which I thought was apparent in his countenance. I took his hand, and entreated him not to give way to such reveries, as it would have a tendency to retard his recovery, which I endeavored to assure him would take place. "Your strength is increasing—your countenance wears a more glowing and healthy hue—you have survived the winter anu the changes of spring; summer must insure your health." Looking at me very earnestly, he replied, "I know you are anxious for my life, and what we desire much we easily persuade ourselves will take place according to our wishes. But / feel that it will not. I am indeed stronger this evening, but there is something which comes over me with the overpowering conviction of inspiration, telling me that my sands are almost shaken through. Look upon that scene. Because .the heavens look so beautiful, do you say that it betokens light and joy? Will not darkness soon ensue? May not yonder dark cloud, now indeed shrinking, be fraught with woe, and roll up in the heavens but to pour destruction upon the crouching earth? The night of tempest follows the sunniest day— the wildest storm comes after the most unbroken calm—the bird of the lake warbles her loveliest notes with her parting breath! And what is this? this strength—this unwonted energy—this refreshing calm upon my spirit? it presiges my journey through the valley of death—its shadow will soon enshroud me. But I know that beyond, there is peace! The golden cords of life are even now breaking, and the loosed spirit seems to be hovering."
I was silenced. His voice and manner, so unusual, so supernatural, convinced me that he must be right. I paused, not attempting to reply, for I felt it was wrong to endeavor to persuade him to believe that he must remain on earth, when the glory of heaven had already kindled upon his vision.
As he ceased speaking, a beautiful girl of about fourteen or fifteen, came bounding towards the house, her large straw flat hanging behind her back, and her dark brown hair tumbling in careless but beautiful negligence upon her snowy neck and bosom—her hand holding a rich boquet, which she had just been gathering. On she bounded, a handsome spaniel, her only companion, gamboling at her side. C saw her. "Here
comes my little Kate," said he; "poor child, she realizes not how soon she is to be deprived of her only guardian. I have told her I must soon leave her all alone; and when she hears of it, it seems as if her heart would break; but still, like you, she says she knows I will get well. God be with her—I leave her in a world full of temptations and sorrow."
Kate soon entered. She came to me and gave me the usual token of gratulation, and
then going to C put one arm about his
neck. He asked her where she had been. She replied, at the same time handing him
the little boquet which she said she had gathered for him, and that they were the prettiest she could find. She saw that he was sorrowful and suspected the subject on which we had been talking; the very thought of which broke up the fountains of her sorrow. She hid her face upon his bosom, and as she did
so the full sparkling eye of C filled with
tears—Kate looked up and saw it—he kissed her pale forehead, and said, " Father will not be here long: Kate can then only throw her flowers on his grave." This was too much. She threw both arms about his neck and sobbed stifledly, as though her heart would break. The tears of C fell upon her dark tresses, for they wept together. Never did I behold a scene more touching. Could I help weeping? I could not, for the salt tears would flow. Oh! thought I, who can tell the strong feelings which bind hearts together? Who can speak the woe which wrings the soul of man when the chords which bind him to the only object of his love are to be severed f
Truly, when waters gush from a man's heart—from the rock—the blow which calls
them forth is not light! C did not weep
for himself, but he wept for the Orphan.
After some time he was composed; and after long soothing, the weeping Kate was prevailed upon to dry her tears, to leave the room, and endeavor to still her agitated feelings by attending to some of her little duties.
C gave her one more kiss, and again
we were alone.
It would have been unholy in me to have broken the silence which ensued for a few moments. I thought of the deep grief which a fond father's heart must feel when about to leave a loved child—an innocent and lovely daughter, to brave, aye, to bend beneath the storms of the world—and I scarcely breathed. He covered his face with his hand during the pause, and broke it by the half inquiring, half ejaculated words, " Who will take her—will any one love her as I have done?" I would have replied, but, turning to me, he said " Mr. Morris, you are to be my executor—will you take her—will you be a father to her? In the home of my solitude she has been my all, and I know that I have been all to her, but I must soon go—will you take her, and shall she be to you as one of your own children 1 I will not ask you if you will love her: if you consent to take her, you cannot help doing so, she is so lovely. She will in turn render the affection of a daughter."
1 soothed C as well as I was able, assuring him that all should be as he desired, and that the only thing which had kept me from proposing the guardianship of the lovely Kate myself, was the delicacy I felt in entering into an arrangement, which could only be founded upon the supposition of his speedy death—a subject from which 1 had assiduously endeavored to turn his mind, as I feared it would only have a tendency to hasten his end.
C , since his constitution had become
so much shattered, was occasionally betrayed into expressions of feelings which would almost seem womanly. But by an exertion characteristic of his native energy, he composed himself, and begged me riot to think him weak—saying, "It is a failing which has for a few years past got the mastery of me. But you know that the waters will burst from the fountain whose bounds have been once broken."
With great freedom, he talked with me concerning the settlement of his affairs after death. He had not been engaged in any worldly business, and his fortune, which was sufficiently ample, was invested in such a way as to require only one or two papers to settle it upon his only heir—the young and lovely Kate. And it was decided that she should hold the relation to me of a daughter. The fortune was settled on her, inalienably, to be commanded by her at the age of twenty.
Just before going away, C asked me
to call again the following evening. Said he, "You have been my most, nay, my only intimate friend, since the blue waves of the Atlantic wafted me from the home of my joy and sorrow, to seek a home and a grave among strangers. You have heard me say that my life has been planted with thorns— that the cup of existence which sparkled as I touched it to my lip, turned to gall and wormwood as I quaffed it. I have told you my object in settling in this retired place; that it was to banish from my mind the great world, and by my humble efforts, in the character of a quiet pastor, to instruct in holiness and bless by my ministrations the people of my little flock—trusting thus to find that peace which I know religion alone can afford, and at last to pillow this head in a secluded spot —far—far, from the ambitious crowd. But you have not heard my history; and you know not the history of the beautiful one whom you are about to take when I am gone. You say, and I know you will be a father to her. You should then know her history; and in learning her's it will be mine you will know, for they are interwoven. Come tomorrow evening and you shall know all; remember that it is for your own ear, or at least till Catherine sleeps at my side. It is to be the secret of your own breast. It is strange that I should love her so—but it is so—she is the only star which has peered through the clouds which have so long curtained my sky; and without which all would have been despair—rivers should not quench the ardor of my love—she is so like her mo
ther—if she were—" Here he stopped, and then added, "But come to-morrow, and you shall know a history which is known only to this breast and to Him whose throne is yonder."
A mutual pressure of the hand, and we parted. In my walk home my thoughts were strange and sorrowful. Strange, for some of
the remarks of C had been ambiguous,
and I thought incoherent. "Strange that I should love her so"—repeating his words several times—an only daughter—so beautiful— a mind so beyond her years, and withal so ardently attached that she seemed to joy and live only in his smile—what can he mean! I was sad when I thought how soon that one whose presence had always been so pleasant should be removed just when I had most learnt to value his friendship. It had been a long time before any one seemed in the smallest degree to share any of his private feelings. Although his manners were such that he could enter almost immediately and instinctively by kindly sympathy into the hearts of the people amongst whom he labored, yet his own was shut. Many was the time he had dried the widow's tear, and hushed the sigh of the orphan, and led the despairing and the wretched to the wellspring of life. But it was only within a short time, that he had revealed so much of his own feelings as to create—that knitter of all hearts—that cement of kindred souls—mutual sympathy—and I, perhaps, was more fortunate in this than all others, and happy was I in sharing the sacredness of such a heart.
I had scarcely reached home when the clouds rolled up from the south, and all the elements seemed to mingle in the fury of a tropic tempest. And, as I lay upon my bed and heard the demon of the storm and saw the quick lightning which lighted him to destruction, 1 thought of the predictions of my friend, that the brightness on his cheek was but the presage of the shadow of the tomb— the quiet of his mind, the herald of the death struggle!
The next day I was again at the side of C . He looked paler than on the preceding. He had just arisen from his bed, where he had been all day, and upon which, as he said, he had spent a restless night. Here was the wreck of a fine form—noble, however, even as a wreck! His stature was tall; his form once of elegant proportion, was now attenuated; his jet black hair, once thick, was now long and smoothed back, exposing a noble forehead, which, like all the rest of his face, was of marble whiteness, save the hectic spot.
His mood was more melancholy than the evening before, yet he received me with the usual warmth. Kate, as she had seen me enter, came into the room to greet me. I thought I could perceive, by the way she came to me and extended her hand, that
C hud already told her that in me she
was to find her future guardian. After speaking a few kind words to her, she went over
to C . She could not help seeing that
he was paler than usual, and that a dark cloud shadowed his brow. She stood by him, and as their eyes met, her bosom heaved, and she tried to repress the rising tear—it would come—the big drop rested on her pale cheek —the dew-drop upon the lily. She immediately left the room. It was to weep alone. Alas! how much of sorrow is shut out from the eyes of mortals—how often does even the youthful heart gush with woe when the world thinks that there is naught there but light and joy.
C immediately introduced the subject
referred to on the evening before; saying, "I would gladly defer it, as I am so much exhausted now, that I fear I ehall not be able to relate all. It is best however to go on; I will not be stronger again; and to-morrow it will be too late.
"The early history of my life you know. I have told you of the green banks of the beautiful Ewell—its gentle flow—its lucid waters—the wild hills which are heaped around it. There were the haunts of my youth; there the spring tide of my life went leaping onward like its clear green waters; thrice happy would I have been had I never left that Elysium—never were softer sounds than the gentle rush of its wavelets as they kissed its verdant banks. Oh! my early hours, I now see them through the vista of years, beautiful as a dream. But the world beckoned, Fame called; and listening to her hollow voice, I left my early home—I left happiness.
"My parents were not so circumstanced as to be able to give me a liberal education, but a childless uncle, by my mother's side, ardently attached to the established church, desirous of having some one of his own name in holy orders, offered, if I would devote my life to the church, to furnish me with the means of obtaining proper preparations for entering upon so important an office. I gladly accepted his proposals; for my ambition was on fire; surplices, lawn sleeves, mitres, visited me in my dreams; and I already saw listening multitudes hanging upon my eloquence. A situation so far beyond all that I had imaged forth in my brightest dreams of the future, intoxicated me, and I commenced my career with hopes such as only an enthusiast could ever nurture. My preparatory studies were carried on at no great distance from home, and I was frequently suffered to visit my parents and friends. Five or six
times every year, was I permitted to^o and receive the benefit of a father's instruction, a mother's prayers and words of sweet encouragement. But there was more than this to draw me from my studies, in which I engaged with all the ardor which ever ambition fanned. There was one dearer to me than all others—to possess her love was to bask in unsullied happiness. And I did possess that love.
"Though young, we were already plighted; and never did I visit my early home but we vowed and re-vowed that death alone should tear away the cords which bound us together. I received her look and word of approval and encouragement every time v^e met; and many a time did the future unroll before us its scenes of honor and unsullied happiness. No cloud curtained the bright view. At length I was to leave, and finish my studies on the continent. Sad, sad indeed, was the hour of our separation. That night I shall never forget. It is before me now, as though years had not intervened. The remembrance of last night is less vivid. The air was still—we moved on, taking our last walk together—we were both silent, silent—for our hearts were too full for words. Words were impotent—our affections mingled—we felt that our hearts communed! AH was still save our own foot-fall, and now and then, the song of some night bird, or the whispering sounds of the waves of the Ewell, as they washed its banks. We were upon its banks. A lofty clustering oak spread its branches above us: we seated ourselves upon its jutting roots, and the bright moon was flinging its glittering jewels upon the river before us, and as they fell upon its rippled surface a thousand flashing rays met the eye. But what was this to me! There was one near me, without whom that night had lost the brighest gem of its coronet.
"How we came there, we could not say. We had wandered we knew not where ; but, as if by instinct, we were on the spot where we had plighted our troth. We looked not upon each other; her head leaned upon my bosom, and my eyes were turned heavenward. I don't know why, but a horrid thought entered my mind, that our union would not be here, but there! I tried to banish the thought, and as she breathed my name, I did banish it; she told me to hasten my return —I promised—and here, where we first owned our love, we again pledged our constancy to each other; not that we doubted, but because we loved to hear that vow. I drew from my finger a ring, and passed it upon one of her own. I bade her remember the night on which it was placed there; she pressed it to her lips as her only answer. And as we both looked up to the deep, calm