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How interesting he appears to every feeling mind! A child robbed of its mother excites universal commiseration and affection from every bosom. We look forward with anxiety to every future period of his life, and our prayers and hopes attend every step of his journey. We mingle our tears with his on the grave of her whose maternal heart has ceased to beat, for we feel that he is bereaved of the friend and guide of his youth !. His father would, but cannot supply the loss. In vain the whole circle of his friends blend their efforts to alleviate his sorrows, and to fill the place occupied by departed worth; a mother must be missed every moment by a child who has ever known and rightly valued one, when she sleeps in the grave. No hand feels so soft as hers—no voice sounds so sweet —no smile is so pleasant —Never shall he

again find in this wide wilderness, such sym

pathy, such fondness, such fidelity, such tenderness, as he experienced from his mother. The world was moved with compassion for that motherless child, but the whole world cannot supply her place to him.

For the Ladies' Garland.

From the records of the Philadelphia Literary Asso

ciation. Written on meeting my fellow members af.

ter recovering from Sickness.

Yes, yes, once more I see you met,
Again I press each brother's hand;

O! who has ever felt regret
That joined this friendly, social band?

I would not give one hour I've spent, With those my bosom holds so dear;

For days of other years that lent,

No glow like that which kindles here.

Oft have I roam'd the dusky wild,
And scal'd the mountain's rugged breast;

Where cat'racts foam'd and valleys smiled
In nature's brightest glories drest.

I've stood upon the Atlantic's shore,
And view'd its proudly heaving wave;

Have listen’d to its solemn roar,
And seen the bark its fury brave.

But dearer far than these to me,
Is friendship's sweetly soothing voice

The accents of bland sympathy,
Which bid my aching heart rejoice.

To you who kindly, freely came,
Vigil to keep around my bed;

When fell disease had rack'd my frame,
And life seem'd trembling on a thread:—

My heart with gratitude o'erflows, And till this form inurn'd shall be, I'll often fondly think of those Who thus in sickness thought of me. BELIEF IN IMMORTALITY.-Rameses, king of Egypt, when he wished his great obelisk to be elevated, caused his son to be attached to it, that the persons employed might feel that a life far more precious than their own depended on their labors. So is it with the belief in the immortality of the soul; it is not our lives only that depend on it, but the far dearer ones of the departed. == REPENTANCE.-Lost innocence is lost for ever. The victim of shame may so far check her steps in the career of evil as to maintain the outward forms of worldly decency; but it is only one instance in a thousand that repentance reaches to the soul.

T H E LA Dips GAR LAND.

Vol. III

A WREATH OF MAN Y Filo WERS.

No. 3.

T H E I) E F O R M E D G I R L. by H. w. PRENTICE. MEMORY-mysterious memory !—holy and blessed as a dream of heaven to the pure in spirit—haunted and accuser of the guilty!— Unescapable presence lingering through every vicissitude, and calling us back to the past—back to the dim and sepulchred images of departed time—opening anew the deep fountains of early passion—the loves and sympathies of boyhood—the thrilling aspirations of after years! While the present is dark with anguish, and the future gladdened by no sun-bow of anticipation, I invoke thy spell of power. Unroll before me the chart of vanished hours; let me gaze once more on their sun-light and shadow. I am an old man. The friends of my youth are gone from me. Some have perished on the great deep; others on the battle-field, afar off in the land of strangers; and many—very many, have been gathered quietly to the old church-yard of our native village. They have left me alone—even as the last survivor of a fallen forest—the hoary representative of departed generations. The chains, which once bound me to existence, have been broken— Ambition, Avarice, Pride; even all that wakes into power the intolerable thirst of mind.— But there are some milder thoughts—some brighter passages in the dream of my being, yet living at the fountain of memory— thoughts, pure as angelic communion; and linked by a thousand tender associations to the Paradise of Love. "There was one—a creature of exalted intellect—a being, whose thoughts went upward like the incense of flowers upon God's natural altars—they were so high and so unlike to earth. Yet was she not proud of her high gift. With the bright capacities of an GAR.—Vol. II.-No. 3. 57

unbodied spirit, there was something more than woman's meekness in her demeanor. It was the condescension of seraph intellect— the forgiveness and the tears of conscious purity extended to the erring and passionate of earth

She was not a being to love with an earthly affection. Her person had no harmony with her mind. It bore no resemblance to those beautiful forms which glide before the eye of romance in the shadowy world of dreams.— It was not like the bright realities of being— the wealth of beauty which is sometimes concentrated in the matchless form of woman.— lt was Deformity—strange, peculiar Deformity, relieved only by the intellectual glory of a dark and soul-like eye.

Yet, strange as it may seem, I loved her, deeply, passionately as the young heart can love when it pours itself out like an oblation to its idol. There were gentle and lovely ones around me—creatures of smiles and blushes; soft tones and melting glances. But their beauty made no lasting impression on my heart. Mine was an intellectual love—a yearning after something invisible and holy —something above the ordinary standard of human desire, set apart and sanctified, as it were, by the mysteries of mind.

Mine was not a love to be revealed in the thronged circle of gaiety and fashion—it was avowed underneath the bending heaven; when the perfect stars were alone gazing upon us. It was rejected; but not in scorn, in pride, no? in anger, by that high-thoughted girl.— She would ask my friendship—and my sympathy; but she besought me—with tears she besought me, to speak no more of love. I obeyed her. I fled from her presence. I mingled once more in the busy tide of being, and ambition entered into my soul. Wealth

58 The Deluge.

Vol. II.

came upon me unexpectedly; and the voice of praise became a familiar sound. I returned, at last, with the impress of manhood on my brow, and sought again the being of my dreams.

She was dying. Consumption—pale, ghostly consumption had been taking away her hold on existence. The deformed and unfitting tenement was yielding to the impulses of the soul. Clasping her wasted hand, I bent over her in speechless agony. She raised her eyes to mine, and in those beautiful emblems of her soul, I read the hoarded affection of years—the long smothered emotion of a suffering heart. “Henry,” she said, and I bent lower to catch the faltering tones of her sweet voice—“I have loved you long and fervently. I feel that I am dying. I rejoice at it. Earth will cover this wasted and unseemly form, but the soul will return to that promised and better land, where no change of circumstance can mar the communion of spirit. Oh, Henry, had it been permitted —but I will not murmur. You were created with more than manhood's beauty; and I–deformed, —wretched as I am, have dared to love 'Wou !”

I knelt down and kissed the pale brow of the patient sufferer. A smile of more than earthly tenderness stole over her features, and fixed there, like an omen of the spirit's happiness. She was dead. And they buried her on the spot which she had herself selected— a delightful place of slumber, curtained by green, young willows. I have stood there a thousand times by the quiet moonlight, and fancied that I heard, in every breeze that whispered among the branches, the voice of the beloved slumberer.

Devoted girl! thy beautiful spirit hath never abandoned me in my weary pilgrimage. Gently and soothingly thou comest to watch over my sleeping pillow—to cheer me amidst the trials of humanity—to mingle thy heavenly sympathies with my joys and sorrows, and to make thy mild reprovings known and felt in the darker moments of existence; in the tempest of passion, and the bitterness of crime. Even now, in the awful calm which precedes the last change in my being; in the cold shadow which mow stretches from the grave to the presence of the living, I feel that thou art near me— "

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A contented mind and a good conscience

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This may be classed with no other event. It stands alone. The recorded transactions of men, the desolating power of the elements, the cracks, tremors and eruptions of the crazy earth, may be graduated by some scale of comparative sublimity, force, or terror. With occurrences of the one kind there are similar records to compare, and the mind enjoys a secret pleasure in balancing the recent evil with the kindred one more remote. This satisfaction arises in part from the grateful conviction forced upon the mind that there is a demonstration of method in the recurrence of calamity—that the event, however distressing, has a parallel,-and, as the earth, on which the hopes and castles of men are resting, survived the antecedent dispensation, so even now, when the thunders have done uttering their voices, or the spirit of the storm has passed by, or the spasms of organic matter have quieted themselves, the interrupted order of nature will revert to its own place. It will soon be over, is the uppermost thought in danger—and then, calculations may be made, projects entered upon, the future bent into the circle of the present, and man, once more, seem to himself the lord of the creation.

But in a new, untried calamity, appalling circumstances astound us; the courage of the bravest cowers under the approaches of a foe, uniting tremendous strength with unknown rules of action—and unearthly terrors gather themselves, like a cloud of fearfulness, oyer a scene of undefined, measureless ruin. Such was the deluge. It was poured out from the windows of heaven, it gushed up from the boiling fountains of the great deep without measure, parallel, antecedent, or genealogy. This is the event of one name; its genius one; its species one; its fashioning after its own fearful image, casting its shadows forward in the revelations of Noah's prophetic spirit.

All nations own this occurrence as indisputable; and a thousand venerable traditions testify of the deluge of waters along with the water marks which are abundantly found in the highest mountains, and may be identified in the geological structure of the continents and the islands. No element, perhaps, excepting that of fire, could have wrought such changes—for, when the shoreless waters subsided, the fragments of the broken up world were tossing to and fro and rounding themselves into a dry orb, under far other than antediluvian features and combinations, the retiring waves sported with the ancient moun

tain tops as with pebbles, and surge after surge.

will make a man happy in all conditions. "laid up on high the immense ridges of new

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modelled hills with deep and lengthened vales between. There is one peculiar circumstance connected with antediluvian remains not a little astonishing;-it is, that human skeletons have never been found, nor the ruins of a single edifice or monument, evidently belonging to the world before the flood. Man and his works perished. At intervals, indeed, the naturalist finds imbedded in the secondary formations of rock the gigantic bones of the Tapir and other animals of the old world whose species seem to have become extinct in the deluge; but the bare fleshless skeleton of a man who proudly rejected the spirit warnings of prophecy and lifted up his haughty looks towards the first black drops of the predicted storm, has probably never been revealed by the sunlight of heaven. The new world, drenched, reorganized, purified, was as if man had never been upon its vivifying bosom. The blood of ancient violence had been washed away. The proud cry of millions had subsided to the feeble supplications of eight individuals, who stood alone in a strange, voiceless, unpeopled land, by the side of a rude altar, from whence the curling smoke of sacrifice went up, answered by the beautiful Iris, God's bow of promise in the cloud. An event of such severe application, as might have been expected, has taken a deep hold on human sympathy, terror or curiosity; and almost every being, who has become an inhabitant of earth since that time, has had his thoughts, to some extent, busied in exploring the gloom and storm of that sunless season. Every spirit has peered out upon the watery grave of kings, of proud, aspiring nobles, whose generations ran directly back to Eden, and who still felt in the purple flood of life at their hearts the slowly diminishing impulses of the recent immortality of human nature. Genius, in eloquence, in song, or on the canvass, has often kindled over this , theme and reaped fresh harvests of earthly immortality on this wide field of universal death. It is not our purpose to spread the glorious or the gloomy colors of fancy, in mingled drapery, over the deluge scenery. More true sublimity lurks in the account of this event given in the sacred records than may be found in the most labored, minute, or graphic displays of inventive probability. We follow the works of God; and, like the pioneer raven sent out from the window of the ark, hover a moment longer over this stormy resting place between the world’s creation and its end. The warning was long by the voice of Noah—and longer still by his unremitted labors in building the ark of safety for himself, his family, and those beasts of the field and fowls of the air

who might be destined to propagate their kind;

throughout the solitudes of the new world.— Threatened judgment comes on tardy wing— for God is merciful beyond earthly conception of the most merciful. Arrived at last, it is sudden—as if the kind Creator of humanity, was unwilling to hang out his protracted, unavailing terrors over those whose incorrigible obstinacy in sin had brought down destruction upon them. Many graphic writers and the pencil of the artist, have united in presenting a picture of long continued struggle—the black agony of horrid death—the arduous ascent to the mountain summit—the wild shout of pursuing waters—the cutting off of every hope—the sight of the buoyant ark outriding the storm—and the wild, unutterable wrestlings of the spirit of despair, tormenting the drowning millions in their death ogle But we cannot follow the path of Such. The painter, whose heaving canvass discloses an enormous serpent winding himself around the topmost rock of the highest mountain, while all around rolls the seething waters, reveals a strong probability of nature— or when he paints a cataract near a summit where the laws of nature would forbid a river to flow—or when he defies the doctrine of gravitation and shows the angry, foaming masses of water stretching upward, like reversed waterfalls, he may be sustained by the solemn evidence of recorded causes, if not . effects. Butlet him people the last, the highest visible elevations with drenched, miserable, living beings, he gives needless and uncalled-for severity to a judgment too tremendous to exaggerate. Long, long before the highest hills were topped with foam, all earthly life, except that afloat in the ark, and that whose breath is the deep sea itself, had probably became extinct. When man punishes man, he sustains the poor, shivering form of his brother in slow torments, taking life in excruciating measures, inch by inch—but the judgments of God, slow in their approach, are sudden in their transaction. The calamity comes. The public mind seems stupified; and, in a moment, the Red Sea envelopes a host; the earth swallows thousands; fires from heaven wrap cities in flames; earthquake sinks them in dust, or the howling currents of the broken up seas and the dreary descent of floods from the opened windows of heaven finish the catastrophe of the world before the deluge. There is one point of lonely sublimity in this tragic event not yet delineated by the pencil. It is an after occurrence, when every earthly groan had long been hushed and the sea-weed shrouds had been woven around more millions than perhaps ever will find footing again at once upon our earth. The heavens had wept their last drop, and, with a

60

Beauties of Salathiel.

Vol. II.

pale blue aspect, reflected nothing but a heaving counterpart below—a dark mirror of unbroken waters, rolling to the lunar influence without a shore to graduate the tides. Those waters were receding. Evaporation lay upon their bosom, and curling mists, with a fragrance like freshly opened furrows of spring, floated on the dim edges of the horizon where sky and billow met, and there seemed to form mimic mountains, shadowy resemblances or mockeries of the world that was. From a window of the ark, a dark wing essays its flight. A raven, the first of birds to navigate the atmospheric fluid of the new world, comes out after a year's confinement, and flaps his pinions between sea and sky. The flight of this pioneer, who returns no more, and the visionary line of vapor mountains towards which he directs his course, and the croaking of disappointment, as he finds them thin air—together with the solemn silence of the buried creation below, form an assemblage of lonely impressive images, more truly af. fecting than the fury and affright of the deluge onset.

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1 awoke with a sensation of pain in every limb. A female voice was singing a faint song near me. But the past was like a dream. I involuntarily looked down for the gulf on which I had trod—I looked upward for the burning rafters. I saw nothing but an earthen floor, and a low roof hung with dried grapes and herbs. I uttered a cry. The singer approached me. But there was nothing in her aspect to nurture a diseased imagination; she was an old and emaciated creature, who yet benevolently rejoiced in my restoration. She in turn, called her husband, a venerable Jew, whose first act was to offer thanksgiving to the God of Israel, for the safety of a chief of his nation.

But to my inquiries for the fate of my child, he could give no answer; he had discovered me among the ruins of the palace of the AEmilii, to which he with many of his countrymen had been attracted with the object of collecting whatever remnants of furniture might be left by the flames. I had fallen by the edge of a fountain which extinguished the fire in its vicinage, and was found breathing. Dur. ing three days I had lain insensible. The Jew now went out, and brought back with him some of the elders of our people, who, after the decree of the Emperor Claudius, remained in Rome, though in increased privacy. I was carried to their house of assemblage, concealed among groves and vineyards

beyond the gates; and attended to with a care which might cure all things but the wounds of the mind. On the great object of my solicitude, the fate of my Salome, I could obtain no relief. I wandered over the site of the palace, it was now a mass of ashes and charcoal; its ruins had been probed by hundreds: but search for even a trace of what would have been to me dearer than a mountain of gold, was in vain. The conflagration continued six days; and every day of the number gave birth to some monstrous report of its origin. Of the fourteen districts of Rome, but four remained. Thousands had lost their lives, tens of thousands were utterly undone. The whole empire shook under the blow. Then came the still deeper horror. Fear makes the individual feeble, but it makes the multitude ferocious. An universal cry arose for revenge. Great public misfortunes give the opportunity that the passions of men and sects love; and the fiercest sacrifices of selfishness are justified under the name of retribution. But the full storm burst on the Christians, then too few to have fortified themselves in the national prejudices, if they would have suffered the alliance; too poor to reckon any powerful protectors; and too uncompromising to palliate their scorn of the whole public system of morals, philosophy, and religion. The emperor, the priesthood, and the populace, conspired against them, and they were ordered to the slaughter. I too, had my stimulants to hatred. Where was I? in exile, in desperate hazard;—I had been torn from * home, robbed of my child, made miserable by the fear of apostacy in my house; and by whom was this comprehensive evil done? The name of Christian was gall to me. I heard of the popular vengeance, and called it justice; I saw the distant fires in which the Christians were consuming, and calculated how many each night of those horrors would abstract from the guilty number. Man becomes cruel, by the sight of cruelty; and when thousands and hundreds of thousands were shouting for vengeance, when every face looked fury, and every tongue was wild with some new accusation, when the great, the little, the philosopher, the ignorant, raised up one roar of reprobation against the Christians, was the solitary man of mercy to be looked for in one bleeding from head to foot with wrongs irreparable? During one of those dreadful nights, I was gazing from the house-top on the fire forcing its way through the remaining quarters; the melancholy gleams through the country, showing the extent of the flight; and in the midst of the blackened and dreary wastes of Rome, the spots of livid flame, where Chris

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