« ElőzőTovább »
helpless babe on her bosom touched an electric chord, and saved her from despair. Maternal love, with its pillar of cloud and of flame, guided her through the desert, that she perished not. Sunday came, and the search was unabated. It seemed only marked by a deeper tinge of melancholy. The most serious felt it fitting to go forth at that sacred season, to seek the lost, though not like their Master, girded with the power to save. Parents remembered that it might have been their own little ones, who had thus strayed from the fold, and with their gratitude, took something of the mourner's spirit into their hearts. Even the sad hope of gathering the dead for the sepulchre, the sole hope that now sustained their toil, began to fade into doubt. As they climbed over huge trees, which the winds of winter had prostrated, or forced their way among rending brambles, sharp rocks, and close-woven branches, they marvelled how such fragile forms could have endured hardships by which the vigor of manhood was impeded and perplexed. The echo of a gun rang suddenly through the forest. It was repeated. Hill to hill bore the thrilling message. It was the concerted signal that their anxieties were ended. The hurrying seekers followed its sound. From a commanding cliff, a white flag was seen to float. It was the herald that the lost were found. There they were, near the base of a wood. ed hillock, half cradled among the roots of an uptorn chestnut. There they lay, cheek to cheek, hand clasped in hand. The blasts had mingled in one mesh their dishevelled locks, for they had left home with their poor heads uncovered. The youngest had passed away in sleep. There was no contortion on her brow, though her features were sunk and sharpened by famine. The elder had borne a deeper and longer anguish. Her eyes were open, as though she had watched till death came; watched over that little one, for whom, through those days and nights of terror, she had cared and sorrowed like a mother. Strong and rugged men shed tears, when they saw she had wrapped her in her own scanty apron, and striven with her embracing arms to preserve the warmth of vitality, even after the cherished spirit had fled away. The glazed eyeballs were strained, as if to the last they had been gazing for her father's roof, or the wreath of smoke that should guide her there. Sweet sisterly love! so patient in all adversity, so faithful unto the end, found it not a Father's house, where it might enter with the little one, and be sundered no more ? Found it not a fold, whence no lamb can wan
der and be lost? a mansion where there is no death, neither sorrow nor crying 4 Forgot it not all its sufferings for joy, at that dear Redeemer's welcome, which in its cradle it had been taught to lisp-" Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven.”
Written for the Ladies' Garland. MARTYRS OF LITERATURE AND SCIENCE. BY WILLIAM T. TAYLOR.
The path of science is aptly represented as winding up the mountain side, which is very difficult of ascent, on whose summit stands the temple of Fame, where the genius of Truth is ever ready to encircle the brows of those who seek her favor, with chaplets of never-fading laurel. The flitting visions of these chaplets, which he sees in the dim future, urge on the ambitious student in the pursuit of knowledge. At morn, ere the sun has tinged the eastern hills, he pursues his weary task; at night, when darkness and silence pervade the land—when all nature is at rest, he still toils on, nor does he cease when midnight has hung out her starry lamps, unless his exhausted frame, and trembling hand bid him retire. Such is his daily, hourly toil, that he may not be forgotten by the beings of the next age, nor die “unwept, unhonored, and unsung.” Sometimes, indeed, it happens that the severity of his toil is far beyond the measure of his strength. His slender form is wasted; his cheek grows pallid, his sparkling eye loses its lustre, and he falls a prey to a lingering disease. Then he will often exclaim— “Are these the price of wisdom . These? This aching head,—this inward smart, No rest by night,--by day no ease, This anguish of the fainting heart?” His glittering hopes have fled; the bright visions of his fancy fade away, and whilst his eyes are steadfastly fixed on the long-desired gaol, he perishes a martyr student. But men of science have not suffered from their intense application to study alone, for when we unroll the annals of time, and look over the records of past ages, we find that men of mighty minds have suffered for the truths they uttered, and some of them been put to death, whilst they were endeavoring to benefit mankind. We often wonder that men of “olden time” could have been so blind to their own interest as to refuse the very knowledge which was offered them, and to imagine that the learning of their fathers was sufficient for them, and that that should be handed down untouched to the latest generation. How great has been the band of martyrs : With what exertion did they toil on in the proclamation of truth to the ignorant many! Who can describe their sufferings from neglect, persecution, and want! They met with opposition on every hand, but they nobly struggled on, believing that "after ages" would judge them and their works by a proper etandard. What noble souls those men must have possessed, who, during those "dark ages," (as we must call them,) when liberty of speech was denied them, and their very thoughts were fettered, and restrained, could suffer, and even die for the truths they espoused.
Athens, that old republic, by the muider of her wisest and best philosopher, has left a stain upon her glory which time can never efface. But Socrates has woven for himself a crown of honor; he fell in the glorious cause of truth, and will not be forgotten.
As a martyr of science, the name of Galileo stands prominent, who was thrown into a dark and dreary cell, for endeavoring to dispel from the minds of his countrymen the ignorance in which they had long been held. In varin he taught them that this world was not the! centre of the universe; in vain he taught them that it rolled on in majesty around the bright luminary of heaven ; that the very stars were worlds, many of them greater, brighter, and perhaps nobler than their own. But his bold spirit was not daunted by persecution, for in the walls of his <very prison he pursued his studies, that he might deliver to posterity the emanations of his mighty mind. At his death his cruel persecutors refused him even a monument; but he needed none, for his name is inscribed in the temple of fame, and will be handed down to the latest generation, —'tis linked with the stars of heaven, and when we look up to those bright worlds, let us remember
'' The starry Galileo with his woes."
In the little country of Denmark there lived one, who, like Galileo, loved to view those bright orbs above, and to trace their course through the heavens; but he mounted higher far above them, and fixed his thoughts on the eternal Throne of God. I refer to the pious Tycho Brache. He fled from his country to escape persecution from men jealous of his renown, who had repre-1 sented to their sovereign, that his studiesj were heretical, and injurious to the nation, j The ingratitude of his countrymen, and the! severity of his labors caused his death—he fell a martyr to science.'
There is scarcely a country in the old world, even though it may not have persecuted, that has not at least allowed its master spirits to suffer. Look at England, and how j many (whom I must call martyrs) has she neglected!
The immortal author of " Paradise Lost," I
when blindness had seized him, spent his last days in a remote corner of the land. She allowed him, whom she should have gloried in—whom she should have crowned with everlasting honors—to sink into poverty, and to die in want.
See the discoverer of our own happy land, and though he was not a "martyr of literature or science," yet he may be mentioned as one who received the reward which often falls to the truly great. Upon a false accusation he is chained in a dungeon,—he, whom his countrymen should have revered and respected, is immured in a cell, and even the honor of naming his discovery is refused him. But, while the "star splankled banner" floats in triumph over this land of liberty, the name of Columbia will sound sweeter to the descendants of freemen, than that their country bears.
Those were the times when intellect was obliged to bend to power; when authority prevailed over reason. Then wealth and power were the only roads to honor, and men of the mightiest minds were bound down, when they endeavored to soar into the regions of thought. Now we are as free as the mountain breeze,—free to think, to speak, and to act, where we do not injure our fellow-men. Now, by the cultivation of their native genius, any may rise to seats of honor and renown; and in this our own land, motives and inducements are held out to urge us on to fame.
Although many have been the " martyrs of literature and science ;" yet the persecution of the advocates has not destroyed the glorious cause, for it is the cause of Truth, and its progress is ever onward; it will go on until the end of time, nor will it cease then, for God himself has proclaimed by his word, that " what we know not now, we shall know hereafter;" and oh! it is a happy thought, that in the "world of light" we shall go on increasing in knowledge, and shall approximate, though very faintly, to the perfection of Deity, "whose knowledge from infinity to infinity is one eternal now." Philade phia, Nov. 1842.
Written for the Ladies' Garland.
BY SUSAN WILSON.
Turn not lightly away
Though it bloom in thy path,
For treasures and blessings
And bear in their beauty,
BY L. F. FISLER.
'Twas on a Sabbath morning, in the month of June, 1828, I was summoned to visit a
young lady residing about miles distant
from the beautiful village of Port E********, in which I then resided. She was one whom I had known from infancy, and had long been intimately acquainted with her family. " She was hor father's only child, the idol of his aged heart, and the hope and solace of his latter days. Just entering her seventeenth year, with a mind highly cultivated, and a sensibility alive to every amiable impression, she became a fit object to love and be beloved. Her youth had been passed in quietness and seclusion, in a celebrated female seminary at Burlington. Grief and sorrow were unknown to her, and she knew not of the troubles and trials of this weary world of woe. Because Mary was innocent.
The communication I received, strongly excited my apprehensions, that without immediate haste, my presence or services would be entirely unavailable. Accordingly, without delay, I was soon fast approaching the object of my visit. The light of another day had just began to dawn upon the world; the calm and quiet hour ot morning twilight, when the dark shadows of night are fast mingling with the rays of approaching day. It was at that bewitching and enchanting period of time, when all creation seems to feel and acknowledge the supreme and overwhelming power of Omnipotence; all nature, smiling in reanimated beauty, paying homage and ndoration to Him who is its great Divine Creator. Whether the high mountain peak that mingles with the clouds, clothed with eternal snows, or the low sequestered glen beneath, carpeted with the verdure of nature—whether the tall, sturdy, towering oak that decks the forest, or the tiny bird which warbles among its branches —all eloquently proclaim the wisdom• and power of that hand, which has been the Author of them all.
A thousand reflections hurried through my mind, as I travelled along the lonely road which led to the abode of Mary and her aged parents. Can it be possible, thought I, again and again—that she whom 1 had seen so recently, flushed with health and beauty—«the charms of cheerfulness upon her lips, the joy and pride of her family, was now the victim of disease and probably of death? Relentless, cruel spoiler! how dost thou love to revel and riot among the charms of female loneliness, withering like an early blight the rose that blooms on beauty's cheek, dashing at one fell swoop to the grave, all their hopes and expectations here, there to lie, and fade, and'
perish! How dost thou, with thy sturdy toot, love to trample over the fair, fragile forms of those we once loved, but now can love no more.
Indulging in this sad train of melancholy musing, I found I had approached the house without being conscious of the distance passed over. I was soon ushered into the chamber of the sick. There lay the wreck of one, who, but a short time since, was glowing with health and vigor, exulting in the buoyancy of youth, and the " consciousness of existence." Death's dark doings were depicted on her countenance. I advanced to the bed—she seized my hand with a convulsive grasp (which I can never forget) pressing it with a power as if all her expiring energies at that moment were concentrated in her fingers— she exclaimed—" Doctor, am I not dying 1 I have not sent for you professionally. I well know it is now too late to derive any benefit from your skill. I have sent for you as an acquaintance, as a friend, and especially so, as-the esteemed friend of Frank Woodville. You know him, Doctor V
"Intimately well, Mary. He is now," I remarked, " absent on a visit to his friends in Massachusetts."
"Yes," she replied, "I know it, and immediately after his return, we were to be united in marriage. He is making the preparatory arrangements for that anticipated joyful event —and I must make preparations for the sad solemnities of death and the grave, with all their dreary appendages."
I endeavored to soothe her by stating she might not be so near her end as she apprehended. But if she believed life to be so nearly at its close, her mind and all its affections should be directed and fixed upon Him only, who was able and willing to support and sustain her in the hour of affliction and distress.
She bestowed on me an inexpressible look of calmness and composure—a faint smile playing round her mouth—remarking, " Doctor, this have I attended to, long before sickness brought my head to this pillow—and I can now say with the Psalmistof old, 'though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff' they comfort me.' Doctor, I have a few words to say to you, and 1 feel by my increasing weakness, that they must be said soon." With an earnestness of expression which I shall ever remember, she said, "you will see Frank Woodville again—I never shall! Tell him I love him dearly and sincerely. He has made that avowal time without number. /never have. This has not arisen from a want of affection —but from my youth and the natural diffidence and timidity of my sex. * * *
Doctor, please remove this lock of hair." I immediately separated the large black ringlet which she held in her hand, overshadowing her brow and contrasting beautifully with the marble whiteness of its surface.
"Give this to Frank Woodville, and tell him it is a gift from Mary! Tell him I love him. Oh, could I only sound those few short words in his hearing, [ would leave the world contentedly, yes, triumphantly. Tell him the last words his dear Mary ever uttered— the last accents that quivered upon the cold pulseless lip of Mary, was the endeared name of Frank Woodville!"
My feelings had now completely overcome me. I sat beside her with my face concealed with my handkerchief. She seized my hand again, and with a death-like grasp, uttered in a feeble indistinct tone, "tell Frank Wood"
A momentary pause ensued. Hooked around —one short, suppressed, spasmodic gasp terminated the struggles of the lovely Mary. All was over. The spirit had fled, and in its flight, had left impressed upon her face a beautiful serenity of countenance, a placidness of expression, as if the soul had begun to taste the joys of Heaven before it had left
the clay tenement of earth.
In the course of a fortnight Frank returned, but not to his Mary. His soul was congealed in agony. The preparations for the nuptial knot were thrown aside for the sad "habiliments of woe." All was sorrow, sadness and distress. The hand that was to unite with his was now motionless in the grave; that voice which he had so often listened to with ecstacy and delight, was now choked in dust. The glowing cheek on which he had so lately imprinted the parting kiss, was now mouldering and mingling with its kindred dust. All the sad memorials left him in this general wreck of all—was the sacred lock of, hair—a mound of earth—and a modest stone which told him where his Mary lay.
Should this painful narrative ever meet the eye of Frank Woodville, I fear it will open wounds afresh, which have long been closed by the plastic hand of time, but which never can be cured.
Written for the Ladies' Garland.
THE LITTLE RESTING-PLACE
BY THOMAS MCKELL.\R.
Around an ancient church
A thousand dead are laid;
Another hath been made.
'Tis scarcely three feet long;—
Upon earth's bosom, who had once
A towering sycamore—
Its leafy arms outspread— Stands, life a faithful sentinel,
Amid the silent dead.
An early-withered leaf,
• Fresh fallen from a bough, Lies lightly on the little grave,
A fitting symbol now
Of the inhabitant
• Within that early tomb,
Who fell, like a young leaf, when life
What thoughts of tender love
Circles this spot around!
As to a holy ground.
His garmentsidly hang
On their accustom'd nail;— She sometimes thinks she hears his voice,
And then her cheek grows pale.
She has no prattler now
To play around her hearth—
How lonely is the house where death
The father, 'mid his cares,
Forgets that death has come And borne away his child, and left
Deep silence in his home:
But when his feet retrace
Their homeward path once more,
No bright-eyed boy with joyous shouts
And here that shouter lies,
Unthoughtful, cold, and dumb! < How vain his life were there no world
Where death can never come!
But why a mother's tears,
• And why a father's sighs,
When Godremovestheir sweetest flower To plant it in the skies?
Father! thou soon may'st die;
Mother! thy love may wane; But thy Redeemer-God, who hath
Thy child, shall still remain.
"His love shall ever shine,—
.When heaven's immortal light
Philadelphia, Sept. mi.
From the Christian Souvenir for 1843.
THE CORAL RING;
BY MRS. H. E. B. STOWE.
"There is no time of life in which young girls are so thoroughly selfish as from fifteen to twenty," said Edward Ashton, deliberately, as he laid down a book he had been reading, and leaned over the centre table.
"You insulting fellow!" replied a tall, brilliant-looking creature, who was lounging on an ottoman hard by, over one of Dickens' last works.'
"Truth, coz—for all that," said the gentleman, with the air of one who means to provoke a discussion.
"Now, Edward, this is just one of your wholesale declarations—for nothing only to get me into a dispute with you, you know," replied the lady. "On your conscience, now, (if you have any,) is it not sol"
"My conscierce feels quite easy, cousin, in subscribing to that very sentiment, as my confession of faith," replied the gentleman, with provoking sang froid.
"Pshaw!—it's one of your fusty old bachelor notions. See what comes, now, of living to your time of life without a wife,—disrespect for the sex, and all that. Really, cousin, your symptoms are getting alarming."
"Nay, now, cousin Florence," said Edward, "you are a girl of moderately good sense, with all your nonsense—now don't you (I know you do) think just so too?"
"Think just so too! do hear the creature!" replied Florence. "No, sir; you can speak for yourself in this matter, but I beg leave to enter my protest when you speak for me too."
"Well, now, where is there, coz, among all our circle, a young girl that has any sort of purpose or object in life to speak of, except to make herself as interesting and agreeable as possible—to be admired, and to pass her time in as amusing a way asshe can? Where will you find one between fifteen and twenty that has any serious regard for the improvement and best welfare of those with whom she is connected at all, or that modifies her conduct in the least, with reference to it? Now, cousin, in very serious earnest, you have about as much real character, as much earnestness, and depth of feeling, and as much good sense, when one can get at it, as any young lady of them all, and yet, on your conscience, can you say that you live with any sort of reference to any body's good—or to any thing but your own present amusement and gratification?"
"What a shocking adjuration," replied the lady, " prefaced, too, by a three-story compliment! Well, being so adjured, I must think to the best of my ability. And now, serious
ly and soberly, I don't see as I am selfish,—1 do all that I have any occasion to do for any body. Yon know that we have servants to do every thing that is necessary about the house, so Ihat there is no occasion for my making a display of house-wifely excellence; and I wait on mamma if she has a headache, and hand papa his slippers and newspaper, and find uncle John's spectacles for him twenty times a day, (no small matter that,) and then—"
"But after all, what is the object and purpose of your life?"
"Why—I havn't any. I don't see how I can have any—that is, as I am made. Now, you know I've none of the fussing, baby-tending, herb-making recommendations of aunt Sally, and divers others of the class commonly called useful. Indeed, to tell the truth, I think useful persons are commonly rather fussy and stupid. They are just like the boneset, and horehound, and catnip, very necessary to be raised in a garden, but not in the least ornamental."
"And you charming young Indies, who philosophize in kid slippers and French dresses, are the tulips and roses,—very charming and delightful, and sweet, but fit for nothing on earth but parlor ornaments."
"Well, parlor ornaments are good in their way," said the young lady, coloring, and looking a little vexed.
"So you give up the point, then," said the gentleman, "that that is all you girls are good for—just to amuse yourselves, amuse others, look pretty, and be agreeable."
"Well, and if we behave well to our parents, and are amiable in the family—I don't know—and yet," said Florence, sighing, " I have often had a soit of vague idea of something higher that we might become—yet really—what more than this is expected of us? what else can we dol"
"I used to read, in old-fashioned novels, about ladies visiting the sick and the poor," replied Edward. "You remember Ccelebs in Search of a Wife?"
"Yes, truly; that is to say, I remember the story, part of it, and the love-scenes; but as for all those everlasting conversations of Dr. Barlow, Mr. Stanley, and nobody knows who else, I skipped those of course. But really this visiting and tending the poor, and all that, seems very well in a story, where the lady goes intoa picturesque cottage, half overgrown with honeysuckle, and finds an emaciated, but still beautiful woman, sitting propped up by pillows. But come to the downright matter of fact of poking about in all those vile, dirty alleys, and entering little, dark rooms, amid troops of grinning children, and smelling codfish and onions, and nobody knows what—dear me, my benevolence al