« ElőzőTovább »
Second Verse. THIRD VERSE, They have gone to the land where the gospel's far sound, Thy blessing be with them–Obe thou their shield Sweetly tuned by the angels above, From the shafts of the fowler that fly; Was re-echoed on earth through the regions around, O, Saviour of sinners, thine arm be revealed In the accents of heavenly love: In mercy, in might, from on high. Where the spirit descended in tokens of flame, They have gone–0 thou Shepherd of Israel—have gone The rich gifts of his grace to reveal; The glad mission in love to restore; Where the apostles wrought signs in Immanuel's name, | Thou wilt not forsake them nor leave them alone; The truth of his mission to seal. 1 Thy blessing we humbly implore.
Written for the Ladies' Garland.
DISAPPOINTMENT OF THE HEART:
OR, DISOBEDIENCE TO PARENTS PUNISHED. BY MRS. LYDIA JANE PEIRSON.
Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair were a beautiful couple; and if wealth, with its accompaniments of luxury, elegance, and honor, can bestow happiness, they were certainly happy. It was said that they loved each other sincerely; and treated each other with great deference and politeness on all occasions. They were accounted a pattern couple; a lord and lady to be envied. Yet they had buried two beautiful little ones, each in the first month of their existence, and a cloud, which dwelt ever on Mrs. Smclair's beautiful countenance, was attributed to grief for their loss. This was only natural, and Mrs. Sinclair expressed the most perfect submission and resignation on the subject. Their intimate friends, however.sometimes shook theirheads, and hinted at something wrong between them, which the world regarded as a barefaced slander. This is a truth, however; the lady was fond of seclusion, and lonely rambles, and was often seen weeping in a green bower, or beside a babbling brook, and yet she was no poetess. There certainly was mystery in this; for Mr. Sinclair was either a kind and tender husband, or a consummate hypocrite, for he always treated his wife with delicate affection.
An uncommonly severe winter had just resigned his dominion, and spring had smiled away the ice and snow-drifts from the bosom of the earth, which began to put forth here and there a tuft of green, or a cluster of early flowers, in token of awakening warmth and love. Mrs. Sinclair walked alone in the field and grove, answering with sighs the carol of the bhift bird, and dewing with tears the meek sweet blossoms.
Raising at length her downcast eyes, she observed standing pensively beside a stream, half concealed by the budding streamers of| an old weeping willow, against the trunk of which she supported her delicate and apparently feeble frame, a lady, in whose sorrow marked beauty and sad tender eyes, she instantly recognized a kindred spirit. An acquaintance was easily commenced between them, and they found great consolation in sighing and weeping in company. Mrs. Sinclair soon paid a visit to her sister in affliction; alas, although their spirits were kindred, there seemed no affinity in their worldly circumstances.
Mrs. Howard dwelt in a small cottage, with no other companion than a young country girl, who performed the duties of maid and footman. Mrs. Sinclair, however, insisted that an intimacy should exist between them, and accordingly it was established.
During several unceremonious visits, Mrs. Sinclair endeavored, by frequent hints of her jown unhappiness, to win the confidence of her fair young neighbor. At length she re!solved to divide herown sorrows by confiding them to her friend, whose secresy and sympathy she was confident might be wholly confided in. She accordingly paid a visit to her; it was in the early part of June when all the world is love and beauty. Seated with Mrs. Howard in the little parlor, fragrant with the breath of the bright blooms that looked smilingly in at the windows, the ladies held communion of sorrow, until at length Mrs. Sinclair thus commenced herown history:—
"I have not long to remain a denizen of this vale of sorrow, my dear friend; I am dying of s concealed and therefore more surely fatal disease. No balm can reach my wound; no soothing take away my pain. I bear in my bosom a crushed and bleeding heart. I have loved—ah! too fervently. Heaven only knows how truly I still worship at a forbidden shrine. I know that you will sympathize with my sorrows, for I feel instinctively that you are also suffering from a disappointment of the heart. At the early age of seventeen, I met at a public ball one whom my heart did homage to. He was the perfection of manly beauty; his education was superior; his address captivating; his wit brilliant. I attracted his attention, and the admiration which I felt for him was fully reciprocated; yet for many days I sighed over his cherished idea in hopelessness of ever meeting him again. My health began gradually to decline, and a fixed melancholy to shadow my natural cheerful spirit. My physician advised exercise in the open air, on horseback. It was near a month after that memorable ball, that, as I was riding with a bevy of young companions along the river road, my horse suddenly took fright, and rearing and plunging, seemed about to precipitate himself and me into the swollen stream. At this moment a gentleman sprang from a passing carriage, and rescued me from my perilous situation. I fainted in his arms, and you may judge of my surprise and joy when, on my recovery, I found that my deliverer was him whom I so ardently loved. He accompanied me home, and for several days continued his visits, until I found myself irrevocably his. Before, however, he made any declaration of the love which beamed in his eye and spoke in every gesture, my father commanded me to break off all intimacy with him. Some envious creature had traduced the noble youth, and my father gave heed to the vile slander; and when I refused to pierce his heart by a cold and haughty demeanor, my proud and punctilious father gave him plainly to understand, that his visits
would thereafter be considered unwelcome intrusions, and also hinted at the aspersions which lay upon his character. In all the agony of offended pride, and a wounded yet lorty spirit, the insulted gentleman bade me an everlasting farewell. Oh! the fearful agony of that hour! The iron then entered into my soul. I sunk under the leaden burden of despair. For several weeks a delirious fever held me on the brink of the dark river of death. This insensibility undoubtedly prolonged my life ; for when at length the fever left me, my mind and body were so debilitated, that even the dark current of despair flowed feebly on. It was long before I recovered sufficiently to go out, and when I did, the deep melancholy that shadowed my invalid beauty, awoke a deeper feeling than admiration in all that looked upon me. Mr. Sinclair soon professed himself my lover. He was unexceptionable, as his fortune, character, and person were all above mediocrity. My father urged me to accept his hand, and in the heartlessness of my despair, I consented to become his bride. Oh! could I have known before the irrevocable knot was tied, that which I learned only too soon after that fatal day, I should have escaped at least the keen remorse that has added its venom to the bitter fountains that has ever since bathed my bosom. I had been only a few weeks married; the bridal festivities had hardly passed away, when, as I was rummaging an old secretary, my eye fell on a letter, the superscription of which arrested my attention. It was from the lord of my heart. It was received during my illness, and my father, after reading it, and resolving to keep it from my knowledge, threw it carelessly aside. It breathed the most ardent love, the most unwavering constancy. He besought me to remain true to him a little while, until he could confront his accusers with unanswerable evidence, and claim me triumphantly of my punctilious father. He concluded with a solemn assurance, that he would never love or marry another, and besought of me an immediate answer, saying, that if he received it not in ten days, he should embark for the Indies, beneath the pestilent climate of which his broken heart would probably soon find rest. Oh! my friend, is there any balm for a heart lacerated like mine 1 The world deems me happy, and truly I possess a large share of its treasures and its baubles. My husband—I shudder as I speak that word—is all that I could desire a man to be; yet this eternal canker in my heart robs mo of repose and peace."
Long did the pensive friends mingle their tears and sighs. At length Mrs. Howard, after essaying all her powers of consolation, until Mrs. Sinclair became somewhat calm,
'proposed to imitate her by recounting her own 1 sorrows.
"My history," she said, "is very similar in its opening to yours. I, too, am a rich man's daughter and delicately educated. 1, too, was fascinated by a dazzling stranger, of whose address my father in his wisdom disapproved. But I had been spoiled by indulgence ; I would not listen to parental advice. My lover was all perfection in my opinion, and so ardent was his worship, that I felt as if his life depended on my love. How could I treat him with cruelty? with what words could I answer the sophistry of love, while my own heart echoed every syllable? My parents remained inexorable. Oh! I had a dear good mother, who loved me as mothers only love. She plead with me to tear that new-pledged love from my bosom; she assured me that its object was unworthy, and I accused her of cruelty and malevolence, and told her plainly that I considered my lover my best friend. She clasped her hands and wept bitterly. Those tears! Oh! they lie like fire coals on my heart, although at the time I felt them not. Well, I consented to a clandestine union ;—but as the day approached in which I had promised to fly with my beloved, I felt agony indescribable. To leave the home in which I had dwelt from infancy—to forsake my ever kind and indulgent parents—to leave behind me all my girlhood's treasures, was a severe trial; yet I did not once doubt the love and constancy of my lover, who assured me that my father would soon forgive, and receive us into favor. He did not know him as well as I did, or he would not have hoped a sperdy pardon. The hour arrived. I made a pretence to go out a few hours. When 1 was dressed I lingered in my chamber, I felt an invisible power withholding me from my purpose.— The clock struck. 1 knew that he awaited me; I crossed the hall hurriedly. Mother sat in the parlor; 'you will be back to dinner?' she asked. 'Yes, ma'm; good morning,' I faltered, and my father's doors closed upon me forever. 1 found my lover waiting at the place of rendezvous. With gentle chidings for my tears, mingled with his thanks and exultation, he placed me in his carriage and we set forward. We were united. He placed me in elegant lodgings, until his house should be ready for our reception; he was very kind and attentive; but I knew no peace, no moment of unalloyed happiness. I was soon convinced that I should have been happier with my parents without him, than with him without my parents. It is sufficiently afflictive to forsake all the sweet tender sympathies of home, when we carry with us the paternal blessing; but to go as I did, to throw all aside for the love of a
stranger. Oh !' the way of transgressors is hard!' I was ill. Where was my anxious mother with her ceaseless cares and blessed soothing J My husband had me well attended, but those who nursed me loved me not, and there was no balm in their ministrations. He was out all day attending to his business, which he said was imperious; and although he inquired fondly of my state when he came home, I felt that there is no love like a mother's. I wrote to my parents immediately after my elopement, and looked with great anxiety for the letter which should recall me to their arms. After several weeks had elapsed, my husband brought a large packet from the post-office. My heart paused as 1 took it. I knew that it was not the heartwarm message of pardon and peace. My husband was anxious to know what it contained, or I do not know how long it might have remained sealed. Its contents were a letter from my mother, penned in the agony of a bereaved heart, yet breathing pardon and warm wishes for my happiness, with much advice for my conduct in my new station, and an everlasting farewell. JVIy father wrote coldly and haughtily; enclosed one thousand dollars, assuring me that I should never receive another cent, another letter, or any notice whatever from him. Notwithstanding the depth of my affliction, I could not but observe that my husband expressed more chagrin than sorrow. I sought to soothe the bitterness which he evidently felt against my father, when he angrily rebuked me, thus adding to the measure of my misery. As soon as I was sufficiently recovered from the shock to sit up, he told me that since I was an outcast I must be content with a more humble lodging. 'Merciful God!' I cried, 'what annunciation comes next?' 'Why,' he continued, 'you may as well know it all at once. The gentleman who possesses the treasure of your heart and hand is a poor penniless being, living by his wits, which, by the way," have led him into one bad speculation.' "I sunk, not so much under the horror of the disclosure, as the taunting heartlessness of his words. A brain fever seized me, and when I recovered to consciousness, I found myself a tenant of a little hut in the suburbs of the city, attended by a dirty creature, whose low conversation shocked me exceedingly. I inquired for my husband, and was told that he would be home by midnight. He came, however, by nine o'clock; seemed really pleased to see me better, and sat by me until morning. Desolate and miserable as I was, I felt to bless him for the kind words that fell from his tongue; and having no other rest my heart clung to him closer than ever. I need not dwell on every incident of my wretched life. I soon learned that my husbanji
was a gambler; and when I thought to secure the little sum sent me by my father, I found it gone, together with my purse and every article of jewelry that had been mine, even to my mother's miniature. But I was getting accustomed to misery in all its forms. I only clasped my hands and sighed. I never spoke to him about it, nor did he ever refer to the subject. As soon as I could be up he told me that I must learn to wait upon myself now, for he could not afford to keep a servant. Then came my trials. I knew nothing of housekeeping. I was obliged to ask information and assistance of my pew neighbors, who, as I soon learned, shrank from my society, under the impression that I was not an honest married woman, as they expressed it. Was I not humbled then! I, the proud, the delicate, the classically educated, obliged to solicit instruction and assistance, and even to ask the names of kitchen utensils, and the common terms of housewifery, of the lowand ignorant, while they shrank from an intimacy with me, as from a hideous contagion. Oh, I was miserable then. At lenrth my husband told me that I must write to my parents, and solicit pecuniary aid. This I absolutely refused to do. Then the demon of his nature revealed itself. Such scenes as then transpired! their shadows even now are hideous to me. At length he added to all the injuries which he had heaped upon me in return for my love and confidence, by deserting me utterly. Then in my helplessness I wrote to my mother; I told her all that had befallen me, and entreated her to write me one word of consolation, and tell me what 1 should do. Two weeks elapsed and then I received another packet, directed in my father's hand, enclosing another one thousand dollars, aiftl a letter from my mother. Dear Mrs. Sinclair, judge my agony as I read my father's letter. He said he trusted that I had learned the certainty of the sentence which he once read to me out of the Holy Book, " He that forsaketh his father is cursed of God." He forgave me, however, from his heart, although my heartless desertion had hurried my mother to the grave. She died three months after my elopement, leaving . the enclosed letter, which I should have received immediately could my residence have been discovered. He advised me lo purchase myself a humble home, and commence school teaching, or some other business by which I might gain a livelihood; said, if I behaved with prudence, he would some day make me another remittance; bade me write to him when I was settled, and concluded by saying that he had a second wife, and a lovely infant son. I sat stupidly the whole day, with the papers in my lap. I was bewildered, dumb with grief and astonishment. It was
not until the second day that I could fully acquit my father of injustice, or summon resolution to read my mother's farewell lines. You may judge how she addressed the dear fugitive who would see her face on earth no more. She had also enclosed a large sum of money, for which, she said, she had no further use. As soon as possible, I purchased this pleasant cottage, and its lovely fields and orchards. An intelligent young man farms my land, and I live at my ease. I wrote to my father in the spirit of filial humility and love, and his stern heart so far relented that he invited me to visit him as a daughter. I have been to his house; I have shaken hands with my step-mother, who is an excellent woman, and taught her sweet little boy to regard me as a loving sister. But, dear madam, nature did not teach me this. I had found affliction profitable to me, for it had
mured, "to be assured that 1 possess the undivided heart of my beautiful wife. I can reproach her with no one fault, and yet there is a coldness and reserve in her manner that effectually prevents the mingling of our hearts."
At that moment Mrs. Sinclair entered. With a sweet smile she approached and threw her arms confidingly around his neck— "I have come," she said, lovingly, "to proffer you the moiety of my heart which I have heretofore withholden from you."
He clasped her to his heart with joyful surprise, and she told him unreservedly the story of her first love, and the disclosure made by Mrs. Howard.
"Now," she said, in conclusion, "the delusion is dispelled, and I fly heart and soul to your bosom."
Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair are now in reality
taught me the spirit of meekness. I trust j happy ; and she often laughingly tells to pinthat I have learned where true happiness lies,i even in the possession of the religion of Jesus. Love is an ignus faluus , - it sometimes leads to flowery vales, but more frequently to thorny deserts and dark morasses. Unless we keep our eyes on the divine light of revelation, we may be lost. No earthly idol can defend us in life, or console us in the hour of death. If we fix our supreme affections on a summer flower, must they not ine . itably agonize over a broken blighted wreck?"
"And have you heard nothing from Mr. Howard since he deserted you?" inquired Mrs. Sinclair.
"Howard is not my husband's name. Ellen Howard is my christian name. After my degradation, I renounced my husband's name, neither did I dare assume the name of my father. My husband's name is Medway— Frederick Mortimer Medway." "Mighty God! Is it possible! O, Lord
have mercy "exclaimed Mrs. Sinclair
wildly. "Frederick Mortimer Medway was the name of him who won my young affections, for whom I have wept so many weary years. Merciful Providence! from what a vortex hast thou rescued me! How madly did I struggle to throw myself off the fearful precipice of ruin. Dear Mrs. Howard, I shall love you forever; but let that which I this day confided to you rest in eternal
oblivion. I am ashamed of my folly." *******
Mr. Sinclair was sitting listlessly in his library; now gazing at the valuable and splendid arrangements of the room, then at the enchanting prospect of garden, field, and grove, which the high-arched windows commanded ; at length he clasped his hands upon the table and laid his forehead on them with a deep sigh.
"All these would I freely resign," he mur
ng young ladies, the story of her Disappoint-
Written for the Ladies' Garland.
OR, A MOTHER'S LOVE.
And let me inhale its perfume?
"Come, now, my dear mother, and sit by my bed,
And smooth down my dark flowing hair;
;,Dear mother, will you please draw the curtain away
And bring my geranium here?
"'Tis my favorite plant, I will give it to you,
Soon this young bud in beauty will blonin;
"Dear mother, sweet mother, take the Bible and read;
Pray once more fur the child whom you love;
That mother bent over her beautiful child—
She kissed her again and again;
"Oh, how can I live in this cold world," she cried,
"I have nothing on earth more to do."
The tall grass waves mournfully over their tomb,
A more glorious victory cannot be obtained over another man than this, that when the injury began on his part, the kindness should begin on ours.