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W. The DEPARTURE.
The fever was at its height. The glassy eye—the hectic flush upon that cheek—the shrunkenlip—all were symptoms of approaching dissolution. What a difference in the aspect of all did that one event occasion Before, each inmate wore a smiling countenance—there was nothing to pervert our enjoyment; but now the rooms were darkened —servants conversed in whispers—and all was still and solemn silence, save an occasional moan from the sufferer in moments of pain, and this pierced to my heart; but he was not always thus. There were moments when he could have died with the calmness of a taper, when it flickers faintly in the socket—now light—now nearly imbecile— until it sinks slowly away, never to return, and shrouding all in gloom. The doctors came, shook their heads, and said he could not live, and went away again. Hope was gone to all save me. I would never despair while that heart beat responsive to my own. I had not been allowed to enter his room before; but a moment of suspension from pain came on, and I entered. I was struck at the ghastliness of his features. A few short weeks ago, he was in the vigor of health— the May morning of life—and buoyant in the sunshine of hope; but a change had passed over those livid features. As I approached, he raised his hand as if beckoning towards me. I seized it—it was parched with a scorching heat, and I started at the fervor with which his bony hand clenched my own.
“Sister,” said he, and the same placid expression was on his countenance that I had often remarked—“Sister, you must not weep when I leave you, for I shall go to that bright world you have frequently told me about, and we shall meet again there. There will be no sorrow—no pain—no dying there—all will be eternally happy in the presence of the Almighty. If you wish to recall me to your memory, go to my grave and read its inscrip. tion; it will teach you that all must die. Farewell—I am going—I feel my pulse cease to beat—my eyes are dizzy—farewell.” The sight of the dying made me frantic—I rushed from the room in a delirium; since then I could recollect nothing. Weeks and weeks my life was threatened with dissolution. I was upon the very brink of the grave; but an
unseen arm snatched me from death, and I
survived. The funeral obsequies were lon since passed—the dust had been consign to its resting place—and I was alone!
VI. The GRAVE.
As soon as my weak state would allow, I hastened to the silent churchyard. A mound of freshly moulded earth, with a plain marble slab, bearing the words “Hic jacet Augustus,” in Latin characters, plainly told where slumbered those blessed remains.— The grave stood apart from the many spacious tombs the place contained; there was no ostentatious display about it, which made me the more admire its simplicity. I had learned to reason calmly. I could look upon that grave and not shed tears. I acknowledged it was foolish in me, but my naturally sensitive disposition could not withstand the buffetings of adversity. The little one who here reposed, had taught me to resist affliction; and my temper has so much changed since then, that I can look upon death with a tearless eye.— I thank Heaven for the lesson which his departure has taught me. I found religion more than ever a comforter. When I remembered his parting words—and they were the last that were uttered—my devotion for him made me more than ever seek its solace; and I felt sensibly the truth of the remark that “Religlon's all.” Yes, it is indeed all. It is our joy in affliction, our guide in misfortune, and our support through life. It will carry us through the dark valley of the shadow of death unscathed.
The flowers he helped me to rear were just opening their delicate leaves, as a charming spring had then set in, and I immediately transplanted them to the head of his grave, while a long branched weeping willow waved at his feet. Years have passed into the silent lap of oblivion, but at each returning spring I have nurtured these frail relics of the departed. In the deep hush of midnight, when the eyes of all men are closed in sleep, and the pale moon and her starry gems look silently down, I have retired to the churchyard, while my humble orison to a divine Redeemer arose, a sad, yet feeling tribute to the memory of My Brother. CELIA.
The person who promises himself success without endeavors, or despairs at the sight of difficulties, is always disappointed; but, on the contrary, he who is indefatigable, succeeds even beyond his expectations.
Habits of industry or idleness contracted and becoming habitual in early life, seldom leave us.
Doubt those who do not strictly comply with their engagements. o *
B E A U TIES OF SA L.A. THIE L. BY THE REW. GEORGE CROLY. No. X.
The first rage of the persecution was at an end. The popular thirst for blood was satiated. The natural admiration that follows fortitude and innocence, and the natural hatred that consigns a tyrant to the execration of his time and of posterity, found their way; and Nero dared murder no more. I had voluntarily shared the prison of Constantius and my child. Its doors were set open. The liberality of my people supplied the means of returning to Judea, and we hastened down the Tiber in the first vessel that spread her sails from this throne of desolation. The chances that had brought us together were easily explained. Salome, urged to desperation by the near approach of her marriage, and solicited to save herself from the perjury of vowing her love to a man unpossessed of her heart, flew with Constantius to Caesarea. The only person in their confidence was the domestic who betrayed me into the hands of the procurator, and who assisted them only that he might lure me from home. At Caesarea they were married, and remained in concealment under the protection of the young Septimius. My transmission to Rome struck them with terror, and Constantius instantly embarked to save me by his Italian influence. The attempt,was surrounded with peril; but Salome would not be left behind. Disguised, to avoid my possible refusal of life at his hands, he followed me step by step. There were many of our people among the attendants, and even in the higher offices of the court. The empress had, in her reproaches to Nero, disclosed the new barbarity of my sentence.— No time was to be lost. Constantius, at the imminent hazard of life, entered the palace. He saw the block already erected in the garden before the window where Nero sat inventing a melody which was to grace my departure. The confusion of the fire allowed the only escape. I was the witness of his consternation when he made so many fruitless efforts to penetrate to the place where Salome remained in the care of his relatives. When I scaled the burning mansion, he desperately followed, lost his way among the ruins, and was giving up all hope, when wrapt in fire and smoke, Salome fell at his feet. He bore her to another mansion of his family. It had given shelter to the chief Christians. They were seized; his young wife scorned to survive Constantius; and chance and my own fortunate desperation alone saved me from seeing their martyrdom. o We returned to Judea. In the first embrace of my family all was forgotten and for
piness; and even her rejected kinsman, through all his reluctance, acknowledged the claims of the man to the daughter's hand, who had saved the life of the father. What perception of health is ever so exquisite, as when we first rise from the bed of sickness? What enjoyment of the heart is so full of delight, as that which follows extreme suffering ! I had but just escaped the most formidable personal hazards; I had escaped the still deeper suffering of seeing ruin fall on beings, whom I would have died to rescue. Salome's heart, overflowing with happiness, gave new brightness to her eyes, and new animation to her lovely form. She danced with involuntary joy; she sang, she laughed; her fancy kindled into a thousand sparklings. Beautiful being ! in my visions thou art still before me: I clasp thee to my widowed heart, and hear thy sweet voice, sweeter than the fountain in the desert to the pilgrim, cheering me in the midst of my more than pilgrimage: An accession of opulence gave the only increase, if increase could be given, to the happiness that seemed within my reach. The year of JUBILEE arrived. Abolished as the chief customs of Judea had been by the weakness and guilt of idolatrous kings and generations, they were still observed by all who honored the faith of their fathers. "The law of Jubilee was sacred in our mountains. It was the law of a wisdom and benevolence above man. Its peculiar adaptation to Israel, its provision for the virtue and happiness of the individual, and its safeguard of the public strengh and constitutional integrity, were unrivalled among the finest ordinances of the ancient world. o On the entrance of the Israelites into Canaan, the land was divided, by the inspired ordinance, among the tribes, according to their numbers. To each family a portion was given, as a gift from heaven. This gift was to be unalienable. The estate might be sold for a period: but at the fiftieth year, in the evening of the day of atonement, in the month Tisri, the sound of the trumpets from the sanctuary, echoed by thousands from eve mountain top, proclaimed the Jubilee. Then returned every family to its original possessions. All the more abject degradations of poverty, the wearing out of families, the hopeless ruin, were obviated by this great law.— The most undone being in the limits of Judea had still a hold in the land. His ruin could not be final, perhaps could not extend beyond a few years; in the last extremity he could not be scorned as one whose birth-right was extinguished; the Jubilee was to raise him up, and place the outcast on the early rank of the sons of Israel. All the higher feelings
100 Beauties of Salathiel. - VoI.. II. and galloped forward with a few of my peo- fixed number of torches on the tower of the ple Temple, did not appear. The troops, am
A horseman rushed from the gate with a heedless rapidity which must have flung him into the midst of us, or sent him over the precipice. His voice alone enabled me to recognize in this furious rider my kinsman, Jubal. But never had a few months so altered a human being. Instead of the bold and martial figure of the chieftain, I saw an emaciated and exhausted man, apparently in the last stage of life and sorrow: the florid cheek was of the color of clay; the flashing glance was sunken; the loud and cheerful voice was sepulchral. I welcomed him with the natural regard of our relationship; but his perturbation was fearful: he trembled, grew fiery red, and could return my greeting only with a feeble tongue and a wild eye. But this was no time for private feelings. I inquired the state of things in Jerusalem. Here his embarrassment was thrown aside, and the natural energy of the man found room. “Jerusalem has three curses at this hour,” said he, fiercely, “the priests, the people, and the Romans; and the last is the lightest of the three.—The priests bloated with indulgence, and mad with the love of the world; the people pampered with faction, and mad with bigotry; and the Romans availing themselves of the madness of each to crush all.” “But has the assault been actually made? or is there force enough within to repel it!” interrupted I. “The assault has been made, and the enemy have driven everything before them, so far as has been their pleasure. Why they have not pushed on is inconceivable, for our regular troops are good for nothing. I have been sent out to raise the villages; but my labor will be useless, for, see, the eagles are already on the wall.” I looked; on the northern quarter of the battlements I saw, through smoke and flame, the accursed standard. Below, rose immense bursts of conflagration; the whole of the New City, the Bezetha was on fire. My plan was instantly formed. I divided my force into two bodies; gave one to Constantius; with orders to enter the city, and beat the Romans from the walls; and with the other, threaded the ravines toward their position on the hills. I had to make a long circuit. The Roman camp was pitched on the ridge of Mount Scopas, seven furlongs from the city. Guided by Jubal, I gained its rear. My troops, stimulated by the sight of the fugitive people, required all my efforts to keep them from rushing on the detachments that we saw successively hurrying to reinforce the assault. Night fell; but the signal for my attack, a
bushed in the olive-groves skirting the ridge, had hitherto escaped discovery. At length they grew furious, and bore me along with them. As we burst up the rugged sides of the hill, like a huge surge before the tempest, I cast a despairing glance toward the city: the torches at that moment rose. Hope lived again. I pointed them out to the troops: the sight added wings to their speed: and, before the enemy could recover from their astonish. ment, we were in the centre of the camp. Nothing could be more complete than our success. The legionaries, sure of the morning's march into Jerusalem, and the plunder of the Temple, were caught leaning in crowds over the ramparts, unarmed, and making absolute holiday. Caius Cestius, their insolent general, was carousing in his tent after the fatigues of the evening. The tribunes followed his example; the soldiery saw nothing to require their superior abstemiousness, and the wine was flowing freely in healths to the next day's rapine, when our roar opened their eyes. To resist was out of the question. Fifty thousand spearmen, as daring as ever lifted weapon, and inflamed with the feelings
of their harassed country, were in the midst;
and they ran in all directions. I pressed on to the general's tent; but the prize had escaped; he was gone, on the first alarm. My followers indignantly set it on fire: the blaze spread, and the flame of the Roman Camp rolled up, like the flame of a sacrifice to the god of battles. The seizure of the position was the ruin of the detachments abandoned between the hill and the city. At the sight of the flames the gates were flung open: and Constantius drove the assailants from point to point, until our shouts told him that we were marching upon their rear. The shock then was final. The cohorts, dispirited and surprised, broke like water; and scarcely a man of them lived to * of having insulted the walls of JerusaeIn. Day arose; and the Temple met the rising beam, unstained by the smoke of an enemy's fire. The wreck of the legions lay upon the declivities, like the fragments of a fleet on the shore. But this sight, painful even to an enemy, was soon forgotten in the concourse of the rescued citizens, the exultation of the troops, and the still more seducing vanities that filled the heart of their chieftain. Towards noon a long train of the principal people, headed by the priests and elders, was seen issuing from the gates to congratulate me. Music and triumphant shouts announced their approach through the valley. My heart bounded with the feelings of a conqueror.— The whole long vista of national honors, the
popular praise, the personal dignity, the power of trampling upon the malignant, the clearance of my character, the right to take the future lead on all occasions of public service and princely renown, opened before my dazzled eye. I was standing alone upon the brow of the promontory. As far as the eye could reach all was motion, and all was directed to me: the homage of soldiery, priests, and people, centred in my single being. I involuntarily uttered aloud—“At last I shall enter Jerusalem in triumph.” I heard a voice at my side —“Never shall you enter Jerusalem, but in sorrow !” An indescribable pang accompanied the words. There was not a living soul near me to have uttered them. The troops were standing at a distance below, and in perfect silence. The words were spoken close to my ear. But I fatally knew the voice, and conjecture was at an end. My limbs felt powerless, as if I had been struck by lightning. I called Jubal up the
peak to assist me. But the blow that smote my frame seemed to have smote his mind.— His look had grown tenfold more haggard in this single night. His eyes rolled wildly; his speech was a collection of unmeaning sounds, or the language of a fierce disturbance of thought, altogether unintelligible. A lunatic stood before me. Was this to be the foretaste of my own inflictions? I shuddered as the past horrors rose upon my memory. Or was I to see my kindred, friends, family, put under the yoke of bodily and mental misery, as a menace of the punishment that was to cut asunder my connection with human nature? [To be continued.]
How noble—how lofty, and full of most important duties is the sphere of the gentle sex. Is there not magic in the eloquent name of sister! There is a duty, to bind more closely around the heart by unceasing love and watchfulness the sweetest of all ties. Unnatural must be the heart, that can look upon the pure and guileless, united by such a tie, treading life's new paths, and not feel the deep beauty of this heaven-born blessing.
How important to cultivate in youth the disposition and affections, to watch the first glimmerings of a repining, an ungentle spirit, to repress an ungracious word, and to endeavor to pursue, steadily and without reproach, the straight and narrow path leading to happiness, and to the immortal strains of everlasting joy in the choirs of the pure of heaven.
To woman is entrusted the high privilege
of guiding the infant spirit from its first wakening. If then the gentle affection of a sister
|ment, and the bright period of youth has been past idly o how can the fond hopes of a father be realized, who would see the unshackled mind of the innocent committed to his charge, beaming with the reflection of all that is noble and beautiful. The young spirit draws from the eye, guiding its dawning powers, the coloring of its . future destiny. Upon a mother's breast, from the fount of her tenderness, its first thought of beauty springs. If sorrow cloud the brow of the mother, the tiny lip is convulsed and the grieved spirit appears to participate in the unknown cause, which shuts from its gaze the light of its parents’ smile. If such be the case, how ought that mind to be disciplined, having no immortal spirit to lead aright through the uncertain paths of the world's allurements and deceits! .
nation for she is rearing up senators and statesmen. Let her then strive for the meed of virtuous praise. Truly a woman in her purity is a “pearl of price,” but in her degradation, to be shunned as to avoid infection.— Let then the preparation for the high duties of woman in youth, be guided by christian hope and lofty aspirations. Let each moment of the precious period be devoted to acts of virtuous emulation, and let those “rose buds in the wreath of our country's hope,” as Mrs. Sigourney beautifully describes the young females of our country, be distinguished above all other nations, for virtue and modesty, for cultivated minds, and gentle manners.
I well recollect when I first saw this expression. I looked at it attentively, and turning an eye around, and contemplating the world, true, indeed, thought I, “Beauty soon fades.” I have seen the blushing rose unfolding its tender leaves to meet the warm gaze of the morning sun, and have almost envied in my volatile gaiety the beauty and innocence of the flower. But when I retired at evening, and stopped to give a passing look at the flower, it was gone—some rude hand had dashed it to the ground, and I left it with a sigh, exclaiming, “Beauty soon fades.” I have seen those whose morning rose bright in an unclouded horizon, and those whose path was sparkling with hope, and anticipation of pleasures already begun—and yet, ere that sun was far advanced towards the meridian, it was veiled with all the melancholy darkness of midnight. It were vain to hope, in this world, that the things now bright and beautiful should be long so. "No, far from it; the brightest
has found in her bosom no answering senti
Upon woman depends the destiny of the
Reciprocal Love—The Married State.
seem to be the first to droop and fade away. There is a tendency to decay in everything that is earthly. Nature is continually suffering change by her own phenomena, or yield; ing her own beauties to the deforming han of art. The mountain is sinking to a level with the valley and the waves of the ocean are rolling over what was once habitable land. And yet I love the scenes of decay—they give a melancholy pleasure far sweeter than much of the gay frivolity of life. I would rather gaze upon the mouldering ruins of some ancient castle—or the crumbling of some huge monument, than see them in their proudest days. I had much rather gaze upon the tree or shrub, that, with keen sensibility, casts off its robe with the first wintry blast of October, than upon the evergreen, that resists the severest touch of Boreas. “Beauty soon fades,” and there is nothing beautiful that we may love, with the hope of its continuing so. It seems but as yesterday, that I assisted in conveying to the rave, the loveliest infant I ever gazed upon. t was the first pledge of connubial bliss—a lovely flower—but it was too beautiful for earth, and in the midst of the caresses of the tender mother, it closed its eyes in death.With slow and melancholy step we proceeded to the grave, and, taking one last look of what was once so lovely, heard the cold clods rumbling upon the coffin. The mother and the father wept, and even I, who seldom yield
to sympathy, turned from the scene with a
tear, in contemplating how soon beauty fades.
There is hardly a more unamiable feature in the whole character of man, than the light esteem in which he too frequently holds the trusting affection of a devoted woman. What can we expect from the generosity and truth of that man who can repay the confession of attachment from woman with neglect or indifference? Jesus said that “if your righteousness exceed not the righteousness of the scribes and pharisees, ye shall in no wise enter the kingdom of heaven;” and yet he confessed that the scribes and pharisees loved those who loved them. Indeed, that love should beget indifference in those who are beloved, appears so unnatural, that if every day's experience did not prove the existence of such an anomaly in nature, we could hardly believe it. Before a virtuous
female can be brought to profess her attach
ment to one of the opposite sex, she must have become deeply enamoured; and she then flings herselfin a great measureupon his generosity. If he then is satisfied with what he conceives to be his triumph, and deserts her when he becomes certain that it is in his power to retain her, he is guilty of a species of meanness so
To Miss —. Knowing that you are shortly to enter a garden, enclosed, and that you are, at so. a stranger to this garden, permit an old friend to give you some account of it. I have traveled every part and every path; know every production of every kind it can possibly yield—and, as my information can do you no harm, it may do you some good.
You know that there is-but one way of entrance. I need hardly tell you that it is extremely gay and glittering; strewed with flowers of every hue and every fragrance, with all that art or imagination can invent. You may fondly hope this scene of rapture will never alter, as you will not see the end of the path when you enter it. To some it proves a short one—and to you it may appear very different in the retrospect.
ere, my dear girl, let me caution you not
to dream of perfect or perpetual bliss; if you do, experience will show you that it never existed on earth, save in visions or visionary heads.
You will meet with many productions in this garden, which are charming to the eye and pleasant to the taste: but they are not all so. Let me just remark, that you are carrying into this garden one of the most delicious and delicate plants in nature—I mean Good Humor. Don't drop it, or lose it, as man have done soon after they entered, who seldom, if ever, found it again. It is a treasure which nothing can make up to you.
When you get to the end of the first walk, which lasts about thirty steps, commonly called honey-moon-path, you will see the garden open in a vast variety of views—and here I must caution you against some productions which are nauseous and noxious, and even fatal in their tendency to the unwary and ignorant.
There is a low, small plant, which may be seen in almost every path, called Indifference, though not perceived at the entrance. You will always know when near this plant, though you do not see it, by a certain coldness in the air which surrounds it. Contrary to all others, it thrives in cold, and dies in warmth. Whenever you perceive this, change your situation as soon as you can.