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WILLIAM D, COOKE,
PROPRIETOR.
A i I N 1) E P El DEN T Fill LY N E l.SPllE R;
TERMS,
VOL. IV XO. 45.
RALEIGH, NORTH-CAROLINA, SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER
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SELECT POETRY.
ODE.
BY H. WARD.
To God, who crowns the rolling year
With blessings, scattered far and near,
Be grateful praises girin ; ,
His power matured the waving grain,
Hegare the sun-beams and the rain,
"And gentle dews from Heaven.
The tender blossoms ft CPtYt
FanneOy the Soatb wlnd'i balmy wlog;
Were nurtured by His care
' He clothed the fields with smiling green,
And caused each well-known rural scene
To bloom divinely fair.
O, happy ye.' who drive the share
And many a fellow field prepare,
In joyful hope to sow!
For you their fruits the orchards yield,
The corn stands bristling in the .field,
In Autumn's golden glow.
The flocks are bleating on the hill.
The herds are lowing by the rill ;
The barns are filled with grain j
While purple clusters of the vine;
With Autumn's ripened stores, combina
To cheer both hill and plain.
With grateful thanks, to God we owe
, AH that our hearts enjoy below :
And at our annual Fair,
Let songs of joy ami praise abound,
'. To Hira'whns hand again rath, crowned
With gifts the rolling year.
IT IS THE HARVEST-
It is harvest ! it is harvest
Fruitful season of delight ;
O'er the hills, along the valkys,
How the prospect glads the sight
Ply the'scythe, and ply she sickle,
Blooming maiden, stalwart swain
Frames wax stronger, hearts grow nobler,
Reaping of the golden grain.
It is harvest ! it is harvest !
Garner up the precious corn,.
Fill your ricks and fill your barns,
Till the last load home is borne ;
But be generons, O ye farmers,
There is plenty, never fear ;
Leave for little Ruth the gleanings.
And the droppiijgs let her clear.
It is harvest ! it is harvest!
At the last great trumpet's sound.
Who will rank among the wheat 1
Who 'mid worthless tans be found 1
In life's spring-time, gentle reader,
Now the seeds of luve and faith ;
There's a harvest, there's a harvest,
And the reaper, it is Death.
From the New England Farmer.
THE MINIATUEE.
. ' ORf WHY I AM A BACHELOR,.
"Why don't you get married V is a question
w'th whicujdoultlessjevery old bachelor liasUeen
annoyed a thousand times. I say annoyed, be
- v j - i
cause what can te more annoying to a sensitive
rman and I think all unarriedm men are more
or less sensitive upon this subject than to have
the question blunily abked him "Why dou't you
get married i"
But, although the quesiion has been asked
' 10 many times, yet it is very seldom that the
questioner receives a 'satfactory answer to his
inijuii), even if he is fortunate enough to re
ceive uny kind of a reply.
Now one might suppose that after a person
had ariived at au age, when no one could, with
reason, think or imagine him to have any
tlioughts or intentions of taking the hy menial
vow, the above question would no longer be put
to him ; but such is the fact, nevertheless,
. only the inquiry is now sometimes changed to,
. ''Why didnt you get married- ?'' The last ques
tion has been addressed -to me several time", but
I have never, until rtcently, thought it worth
the while to trouble or tax the patience of the
inquirer, by- giving a de6ni'te ant er and per
haps I should not; even then, have given my
heart's history so fully, if it had not been drawn
from mer-notso much by the direct question,
hut in an indirect and unexpected manner.'
About a year since, I was taken with a vio
lent fever, which brought me so low that I was
... h'n time in recovering from the effects of it ;
and even now, I feel that I have not quite re--
gained my usual strength and health.
One day, after I had become considerably bet
ter, I was sitting in my chair, thinking of the
past "of t e scenes and friends of yore" wish-1
,ng I could see or hear from those who are yet
-'I've, and following with my thoughts those
ho have gone to the spirit land, win n, with
startling vividness,-thete came before my mind
the vision of one friend one dear friend Avbo
once caused my heart to thrill with a j y which
i known only to those wl.o have tiuly loved.
I opened my desk and took from thence a mina
ture and unclasped it yes, there it was that
ame, sweet image, upon which I had so often
gazed in joy and grief, of the gemle being with
whom I had, in days that ar forever past.speut
o many happy hours.
. Wfii:e thus engaged, the door suddenly open
d and my physician came in. I made an 'in
voluntary effort to cotctal the miniature, but
unsuccessful ; he saw it, and also, it tnay be
the traces of emotion upon my cheeks, for as he
canie forward he glanced t my face and then
SELECTED ARTICLES.
at the minature, as that had sometbTngTo do
with my appearance. He is a kind hearted man
but rather inquisitive, and I was therefore not
surprised that he desired to see the miniature.
He took the picture, and gazed upon it with
such a strange expression of admiration and
surprise, that I was somewhat startled. He
looked up with the greate&t curiosity depicted
upon his countenance, and askedHow diJ votf
come by this, why it' he checked himself by
with it which would he very interesting to hiin.
As we were on quite intimate terms, and as his
words and manner had also awakened my curi
osity, I could not but comply with his reque.it.
And here is the 6tory, gentle reader, in nearly
the same words as I related it to him.
From my early youth I have ever been a pas
sionate admirer of the wild and sublime in na
ture ; indeed, I have often thought that there is
no feeling, or emotion of the soul which gives
me more delight than that which arises from
the contemplation of the vast, grand and mag
nificent. 1 always experience a deep, heaitfeit,
pleasure, and an elevation of mind, while stand
ing upon some bold mountain's brow, and gaz
ing far away o'er forest, plain, village, lake and
river beneath, and into the blue depths of illim
itable space above ; or while walking u on the
slippery cags of the. sounding sea, and looking
far out upon its heaving bosom, and watching
the wild waves as they break and break forever
upon its beaten shores ; and when a youth,
I inward'y resolved that if ever, I arrived at the
age of manhood, this yearning of the soul for
the boundless and infinite should be gratified, so
far, at least, as it was in my power thus to do.
At the age of twenty seven, having laid up
something agaiust a "rainy day," aud being
"free to choosu and'act at pleasme," I determin
ed to avail myself of the opportunity to behold
nature in some of her noble as( ecs.
My plan was to go first to the White Moun
tains of New Hampshire ; from thence to the
St. Lawrence and Ottawa rivers, across Lake
Ontario to Niagara Falls ; from then to C'n- '.
ci 'iiati, and down the Ohio and Mississippi rivers
to New Oi leans ; from thence, by ship, to New
York, 'and from there, by trfe Hudson river, to
my home tigaiu in Massachusetts.
In accordance with this plan, Istartedfor the
White Mountain-, and having arrived there
found that the pleasure which I had anticipated
in gazing from their lofty heights, and in view
ing the beautiful and romantic scenery aroun 1
them, as more than realized. It was with
great reluctance that 1 prepaed to leave a place
where nature displays so much of her beauty
and sublimity. A week had been spent very
pleasantly at the mountains, and 1 had conclu
ded to start the next clay for Montrea'.
But I resolved to have one more ranlbJe over
the hills, and through the ancient and majestic
forests, which then covered, for the most part,
that portion of the country lying within the
vicinity of ' the mountains, before leaving the
place ; and accordingly, in the eariy part of the
day, left my boarding-place and set out on foot
foot, with staff in hand, upon a new route which
I had not vet exploded. So euchauting was
the scet.ery on eveiy hand, and 60 frequently
did the views change into new, and, if posssible
more pleasing combination., at ditiereut joints
along the roud, that the sun h:id Mink far to
ward the western horizon, and jet I had not
thought of leturniug. The road now led direct
ly over the top of a high hdl, or range of hills,
upon arriving at the summit of which, and look
ing westward, I perceived an immense, black
thunder cloud arising ! Already could 1 see the
Huntings flah and dait from one dense mass of
cloud to another, and hear ihe low muiterings
of the distant thunder,
Believing that the shower would be upon me
before I could return far enough tp ohta.n shel
ter, and thinking that the town of S couid
not be more thmi a mile or two ia advance, I
hastened on. But I was "mistaken in the dis
tance, for before I had reached the town, or
came in sight of. any dwelling, the cloud had
come up and overspread the whole sky, making
it almost as dark as night ; the constant glare
of the vivid lightning, and the sharp, rapid
peal of thuuder, almost blinded and deafened
me ; and near at hand I could hear the loud
rushing of the rain, already a few large drops
began to fall arouud me. Just at this moment,
while lookii'g this way and that to discover, if
possible any place that w ould afford me the
least shelter, I espied a house or building of
some kind in a valley at my right. As my road
seemed not to lead towards the bouse. The
side of the hill was covered with young wo d,
and such a thick growth of underbrush, that I
could see but a few feet in advance.
The declivitv became quite aleep as I drew
near the foot of it, and rushing lapidiy down
I came suddenly upon the brikof a precipice,
some twenty five or thiity'ieet iu height. I
made an effort to save myself by seizing hold
of a sniidl shrub, but such ' was the momentum
of my body, that the shrub came up, roota and
all, and over I plunged. When I came to my
self again I was laying upon a bed in a sma I
room. It seemed to be morning, for the sun
was 6hining brightly, aud through the open
window (it was in the month of June) I could
hear the merry voices of the birds singing
with the fresh joyousness with which they usu
ally sing in the early part of the day. I glan
ced about the room, and beheld a form, which
In hit, as yet, partial unconsciousness, I almost
fancied to be that of an angel ; it was a young
lady. " She was standing at a short distance
bora the bedsidii, with her face turned partly
from me, and with her eyes uplifted as if in
prayer. Such a vision of "wouderful lovliness"
methought I had never before teen. Cou'd it
be that I was dreaming ? Her form was sym
metrical ; her hair was of a rich auburu color ;
and her completion was of the most transparent
whiteness, except where the sign of health was
implanted upon her cheek. She life'l'darlc t)!ue
PIT?; arte
m i r- -- 1 " . J
lectu.il cast, bore an expression of modesty,
sensibility, and inexpressible sweetness. She
was dressed with simplicity, neatnes, and taste.
Her lips moved, was she praying for me ! But
I could bear the suspense no longer.
"Woman or angel," said I tell me where I
am ancHioW came I here ? '
She was somewhat startled, and the color
left her cheeks, but it quickly returned, and she
looked towards me and smiled, and it was such
a smile ! It was an intelligent, sympathetic
smile, and such an one as she would doubtless,
have had for any person in like circumstances
to those which I was then placed in, but it thril
ed through my inmost being like an electric
shock, and I felt very sure that she possessed a
kind and affectionate heart. She answered me
by saying
"The doctor is here, I will call him, and he
will tell you all about it," and then disappeared
through the half open door.
In a moment the doctor came in, followed by
another man Mr. W , the owner of the
premises. My situation was soon explained to
me ; after the shower of the previous evening
had passed away, Mr. W went out to look
at a tree which the lightnings had struck 8nd
coming near the foot of the precipice, down
which I had. fallen, discovered me, upon the
ground in a state of insensibility. I was taken
immediately to the house"; a physician was sent
for, and during the whole night every effort had
been made to restore me to consciousness, but
without avail. Tho physician and others iu at
tendance had left me for a few moment's to par
take of some refreshments, and the young lady
of whom I have. spoken, whs watching by me
during their absence, when I suddenly, as before
mentioned, recoveied the use of my faculties.
Fortunately, noun of my bones were broken,
but I was so jarred and bruised, that it was
f nearly a month befbrrIeou1d tfalFaBbut wiri-
! out rrri'Sit. nmn.
o t .
The family of Mr. W , which consisted
of himself and wife, three young children, and
the young lady Clara E- , who was a
boarder, and teacher of the village school, ws
a pleasant one ; .and they were all kind to me,
so that I rapidly recovered. My first impress
ions of Clara were in no w ise altered, unless it
was for the better upon becoming acquainted
wirh her ; fhe was as love'y in character as she
whs in form and feature. She was well educa
ted: a good singer and great lover of music ;
her manners were graceful and winning; and
above all, she was a professor, and as I thought
nt the time and perhaps afterwar.lT had no
good reason to think otherwise a possessor of
ihe religion of Jesus. As these we're all the
qualilhs one could desire in a friend, and such
as I always wished that dearest of all fiiends to
p. ssess, it was not strange, but ptrficcly natural,
that I should, with great willingness, let Lve
bind mv heart with his silken cords. When I
had so far recovered from the effects of my fail
as to be able to continue my journey, I found
that the desire to d so had vanished ; my on
ly wih, now, was to be near the bject of ray
love, to see her, and to hear the sweet tones of
.her vuice.
Mr. W lived in a small village about
two miies from the middle f the town of S ,
and as my intended tour had been given up for
the present, thither I went to re-ide. As I pos
sessed some skill in the art of house-painting,
and as it was a growing plac, I soon fouud
plenty of woik. But now I was in a dilemma :
Clara did not know that I loved her, and how
should I make her acquainted with the fact ?
If I had not been one of the diffident kind, per
haps tho task would n it have seemed so diffi
cult ; but this bving the case, it was with
great effort that I summoned courage suf
fficient to reveal to her my true feelings. I
durst not trust myself to inform her of the fact,
verbally, but sent her a letter. Her reply con
tained all that I could have expected, and show
ed the consciousness of woman in love affairs.
She'mentioned that in our limited acquaintance,
nothing had been noticed by her which had led
her to form an opinion of me otherwise han fa
orabIe. " A more intimate acquaintance with
you," said she, " I should like to form ; although
by this I do not wish to have you understand
that I am giving you any encouragement to ex
pect any thing farther of me, unless time, and
such an acquaintance, should serve to strength
en the feelings of affection which I now have
for you. You must excuse my, perhaps, seem
ing coldness, for I feel myself comparatively a
stranger to you ; and of course I cannot feel the
same towards yu as towaid a tried friend. I
I am far, however, from having feelings of cold
ness or reserve tow ards you, for I trust and be
lieve that von are a Christian : and in those
whom 1 bslieve to be such, I can more readily
feel confidence than in those who are not ; for
I know that there is something purer, holier,
and more enduringin their love." She conclu
ded by saying that if it was my wish she would
be happy to receive a call from me mention
ing the time. Of course the invitation was ac
cepted with great pleasure ; and to our jor, at
the close of the interview; we found that our
mutual love and esteem had been greatly in
creased. I now became a regular Visiter at the house
of Mr. W ; and in the society of my dear
est friend, the gentle Clara, found that bliss for
which so many sigh in vaitt-reciprocal love.
Ourtastes and inclinations were very similar;
and our sentiments and" opinions were" alike, es-
v,tilfxfrtnT thoughts, and teei-
ings, we tound such happiness-as we had never
before experienced. She too loved "the sublime
and beautiful in nature, and many a pleasant
walk and ride did we take together, over the
bills and mountains, and through. the lovely val
leys of that beautiful region of the country ; and
many a time did our voices blend lovingly and
harmoniously together in some sweet old song,
for I was a singer.
But this happy period of my life was destined
to be of, short duration. Clara's school was now
closed, and she returned to her home, which
was in a neighboring town, several miles dis-
tant. I had not yet seen her parents, or any of ;
the family, and being an entire stranger, and as ;
1 have said before, rather diffident, 1 was natu
rally somewhat anxious about the reception
they would give me on my paying them a visit.
I went ; and was received with even more cor
diaiity than I had dared to expect.
The family of Mr. E , of which Clara was
the youngest, was large; but most of the chil
dren were married, and settled withn a mile
or two of the old homestead, so that not on
ly two, besides Clara remained at home
a brother and sister. Mr. E was a farmer,
and somewhat wealthy; he owned a beautiful
farm, which was pleasantly situated upon a gent
ly sloping hillside ; his house was a substantial
and thorough-buiit dwelliug, and plaoed upon
an eminence which commanded a wide and ex
tended view towards the south-east, a view of
orchards, meadows, farms, houses, foieits, aud
in the distance, the blue sparkiing waters of a
lake.
When I saw the farm of Mr. E tor the
first time, I thought that my eyes never beheld
a more beautiful place, but it was Clara's home,
and the fact, perhaps to me, made its charms
more apparent. The children of Mr. E
were well educated, and thought themselves as
good and smart as any body ia toH'D, tynd per
haps they w.-re.
My visit was a very pleasant one, and I re
turned home, happier tl.an ever. Three weeks
past away befoie I saw Ciara again. She met
me at the door, as at my first visit, but I saw,
instantly, that there was a change in. her man
ner towards me. The cause, of the charge of
course I could not divine, but the expression of
her countenance, and the Wfiy she returned my
salutation, told me as plain as words could do
that something was wroi-g.
There was no one at home but her parents,
wbb received me with the same cordiality as
they did at my previous visit. The evening
passed away phasamly, and there ws nothing
to mar my happiness- except that the change,
which I have mentioned, was sti 1 visible in
Clara's countenance and demeanor. As soon as
we were alone, I asked her if she had received
the letjer which I had ent, informing her
when I should come, thinking if sha had not
my visit might have ben unexpected. She an
swered in the affirmative, and asked if I had re
ceived one from her. I replied that I had not,
and wished to kno whnt 3t contained. She
hesitated a moment, and then said that she had
retained a copy of it, which she w ould show me.
She procured it, and took a seat at some dis
tance from me; and I, with feelings which lean
not describe, sat down and read the following
iines:
" You may, and doubtless will be surprised
at what 1 am going to say, but, knowing my
own feelings, 1 think that it is right and best
that I should say of it. I know that I have given
you encouragement to hope and expect that au
intimate acquaintance might he continued be
tween us ; but considering the matter, which I
have done the past week more than ever before,
I have concluded that it is not best so to do.
My friends are, some of them, not pleased with
the idea, and that of course would be unpleas
ant for me ; and I am yet youngs and am hap
piest when I feel free to choose and act at pleas-
ure. in is is not Decause x iuiuk mai l am de
serving of one better than yourself, for I know
that you have very many excellent qualities,
but because I feel that I do not love you as I
am capable of loving, and as I should wish to
love one with whom I expected to spend a
great portion of my life. You are worthy of a
true, lasting, and affectionate friend, and such
an one I hope you will soon find one who is
more worthy of your love thau myself. I tdiall
always feel friendly toward you, for I have
nothing against you, but from anything farther
than friendship I must ask you to excuse me."
After reading the letter I sat perfectly still
for some moments, for I was to astonished and
bewild ered that I knew not what to think, say
or do. At last I ventured to speak.
' " WThy Ciai a !" I exclaimed, u is this true !
can it be possible that it is not all a dream ?"
She replied in the affirmative. After a few
moments of painful reflection, ! went to her, and
npon my knees besought her, with tears, to re
call what she had said. Every argument, eve
ry entreaty which despairing love eould sum
mon forth from head "and heart was used, but
they were powerless ; she, to my surprise and
grief, remained unmoved. I then asked, what
her friends had said to her which had caused
such a suddenchange of feeling tdwards me.--She
replied ttfit a sister who was married, and
lived about a bile 'distant,' and whom 1, had teen,
at my former visit, had, together, with her huS
band, said ionsiderabk" to W wlilcV iad'ten-.
ded to influence her egaintt iae and thai "ioon
after my' first tisil, tie sister, who lived at h'ome,
had advised her'not t have me come again, as
signing s -reason .that I Sas - not smart
-was much older than Cfara, and aTTTXoTTgTfsirr
had not yet quite arrived at the age when a
woman isycleped an "old maid," yet such she
already was to u all intents and purposes" at
least so far as I'had an opportunity to read her
character. She was very stiff in her manners,
very neat and precise, and very tenacious of her
whims and opinions. Already she had rejected
three , offers of marriage, which proved as I
thottgnt (perhaps I was mistaken) the hardness
of her heart.
I will here say that if there is any person or
persons in the world whom I despise, it is those
w ho are continually meddiiiig with the love af
fairs of the young people about them telling
this and that which they have seeu or heard
! and using their influence either for or against
one party or the other. This trifling, and de
ceiving, and tattling, concerning the best affec-
ions and sentiments of the soul, shows a mean
' and contemptible spirit I care not who is the
guilty one. I speak not this out of any ill-feel-
i jngs arising from my own experience, for these
j were my thoughts previous to my having any
i experience upon the subject, but for the good
! of others.
' Not being fully satisfied that the influence of
' Clara's fi iends could be the only reason of her
j estrangement, I askid her if there was nothing
; else that had helped to caue the change. We
' had always been very frank ami open hearted
! in all our intercourse with each other, and I felt
; assured that she would tell me all. She replied
, that a cousin of hers, of whom she had always
; thought very highly, and whom she had not
; seen for a considerable length of time, had made
' a visit at her father's, since I last saw ber, and
J that although his stay was short, yet he had. by
; his agreeable manners and conversation, im
! pressed her very favorably ; indeed, she went so
i far as to say, that .although no words had pass
' ed between them upon the subject, yet she
. thought that her aS'iieEj4-fca& wait-stcatev
than for any one else. :
My pride was wounded, and my heart was
I filled with revenge against those who had been
! the means of all this ; for I knew that Clara was
j naturally too easily influenced, and I felt assured
; that if her fiiends hd not set her against me,
! she would not so readily have yielded to the at-
' tractions of her cousin. My pride bade me
! leave her at once and forever, hut love was
! stronger than pride, and I felt I could not leave
; her without one more effort to win back her
j love. 1 a-ked her if she wished me now to
go, and return no more ; if she wished to forget
' all the- happiness we had experiemed in each
other's society, all the pleasant hours we had
passed .together, the words of live then spo-
' ken," and to remember our acquaintance with
each other only as we remember a dream of
; the night. She made no reply for some time,
; but at last, bursting into a flood of tears, she
exclaimed,
"O ! I have done wrong, I know I have, 1
! shall never be happy again. What shall I do ?"'
i " Love me," said I, " as you have in days that
are past, and if you think you need my forgive
ness, for auixht which vou have said or doue, all
shall be forgiven, nd I know that you w id again
I be happy."
" But 1 know '.that my friends," replied she,
"will say a great deal to me if I continue to
! love you, and what if they should so influence
me as to cause my feelings again to change V
" Borrow no trouble from the future,'" I an-
j swered ; ." perhaps they will not say anything
' more to you, and if they do, you will have a good
opportunity to exercise your firmnes, and to
prove your love tome, by quietly resisting their
influence."
There was a pause for some moments, when
suddenly she put her arms about my neck, and
kissing me, said,
" It shall be as you wih, I d , and will love
you."
With rapturous joy I pressed her to my heart,
and the cloud which had so suddenly obscured
love'a golden sky, as suddenly disappeared, leav
ing no traces of its former existence except the
tears which were yet upon our cheeks. I did
not knew until now the full strength of my love,
j but what had passed caused me keenly to real-
fa it.
" If you continue to love me as you now do,"
said I to her, " not friends or enemies, or all the
world, shall cool my love or drive me from your
side, will you say the same to me ?"
" I will," she murmured, and again her sweet
lips itnpi eased a warm kiss upon my brow.
We parted as usual with mutual expressions
of love and esteem ; but, gentle reader, we never
met again.
My next visit found Clara not at home, but
she had left a note for, me which read as follows:
" It is as I feared it would be ; I do not feel
towards you as I ought, and think I shall not :
I have no reason to think that I shall ; there
fore you must excuse me from anything farther.
As I said before, I think tuat as my ieelmgs
are towards you, this is the best course for me
to pursue, and shall therefore pursue it. If my
feeling3 always change so I shall never marry,
but I presume that time will increase my firm
ness, at least I hope that tbw may be the case."
l' it attempt' to describe my feelings af
ter reading the noVt for 1'conld not make them
U.? j"but'-thW who Lave been in
similar circumstances, and such will readily un
derstand Witbouin deacripiion.' I will only
say, that I Ld no unkind feelings towards Cla
r?.fvr I Ufltved.tbaf ibe;fta4 acted conscien
tiously. She. was JOUB f and inexrjeriena in
cauMTllUt 1U1IV known tame, in'an unfavorable
riglrt. 'There are but few young ladies, thought
l, who would not be influenced bv the above
taets, more or less. Only once, at a subsequent
. ! .3 j:j . . , . . ' .v :
l
per.ou, aia me tiiougnt arise that perhaps she j
was after alt a coquette; that she bad t. Id me j
of the influences of her friends oVer hr. nw.-ly i
na a u cituse iui uer inconsistency, uu; t lie uiea
raade me so completely miserable, it was lau
ished at once and forever from my mind.
A .. . f,.. i . . , - i i
Whether her friends had been talking to her
again, or whether the love for her cousin had
returned,' I know not j but the fact that her
friends had, in the first instance, influenced her
against m, and the suspicion that they had done
the same in the last, filled me with almost un
controllable feelings of hatred arid revenge to-
wares them. I shudder even now to think of
the black aud hellish thoughts that then rushed
through my raiud. But thanks be to God, my
better nature soon triumphed, else I know not
what I should have been left to do. For weeks
md eveu months afterwards, I could do nothing,
or think of nothing, but the loss" I had sustained.
It seemed as if every person whom I met, knew
and mocked at my sorrow, and ! therefore shun
ned society as much as possible.
If the following lines had then been written,
they would truly have cxpre-Sed my feelings at
that time :
"'A sigh that followed not a look to heaven,
On lonely winds tbrough the mid ether tossed
Some spirit yet unshriveu
Mourned its ideal lost.
All vanished iron, that purple mountain-top,
All faded from the still, gray ocean-shore
No soft, blow dew had drop
From thy white eye-lids more.
" Gone from the solitary arch of night.
Gone fruin the all-mysterious heights of dawn ;
From eve's pale, saltron JigUt, .
From noon's clear fervors gone!
o bending glory far, far up may burn,
Xo liie-reviviiis gleam,
No orbit of return !
' ' Ah, miserable! what iihall hide the now ?
What depths ot darkness cover thy despair?
Take ashes on thy brow
Dust for thy garments wear.
''All lost, all shivering, all desolate
Struck to the tOtt with most immortal woe,
Take up thy stuif and go'.'"
But soon
' Far thrilling, lingering, through the mountain
glades,
I heard an awful, tender voice arise.
That once, in thickest shades,
Trembled through Paradise.
' Blind, but beloved ! shall thy dexd arise !
Did ever such ethereal essence die t
Out of the dust arise,
Thine agony deny ?
I am ! I was ! e'er thine ideal uone ;
I was its ombryo ; 1 its life divine :
The Uncreated One
The Teal, tU' incarnate thine.
I gave liiee will, did I deny thee power ?
Fire sunward flies thy loss is lost in ins
Look from the fleeting hour,
To mine eternity.
" If out of life it seems to droop and die,
So long as God amid archangels stands.
Thy pure ideal on high
Iu worshipper demands.'
And iu time I learned to listen with submiss
ion to that voice, and to worth p Uiiu " wi.o
doeth all thing well." But 1 then resolved that
Ill tne inmost recesses ui my uik ns
should be treasured up forever, as a sacred re
membiance, which buld never be unhaliowed
by another; and through the long years that
have since intervened, although my temptations
to break it have been many, I have kept that
resolve.
u But you have not told me," sa d the doctor,
as I paused, "how you came by this." meaning'
the miniature which he siiilheid in hi hand.
I have mentioned, replied I, that 1 possessed
some skill in the art of house pointing, but my
true profession was that of a mmiatuie painter.
One day, while Clara was at Mr. YV th-i
thought occurred to roe that she would be a
beautiful subject for a picture, and. I wi.udrd
that I had not thought of it befoie. Iwtsdy
gained her cousent to sit for a m niaiure. Love
seemed to impart an unusual skill t my fingers,
for. I never in my life possessed such -power to
delineate with truth aud vividness the fcutuies
of the human countenance, as at that time. Iu
truth, I was surprised at the beauty of that
which my own hands bl wrought.;
showing the pictuse to jU a a, after it w i li -
ished, she exclaimed, whiie amudcatblush '"
spread her countenance M You have used tiatte
ry why did you not paint nearer to the truth l"
But all who saw the miniature, thought thai uo
flattery had been used ; that it was Claia to the
life. .- . .
, I alsa painted another, equally as good, which
I gave to Clara; and thti I . have kept as the
only relict of the happiest period of my life;
not that my life has been an unhappy one far
otherwise ; but in those happy days, I, felt a ful
ness of joy, a completeness of happiness, which
I have never since experienced. "
As the doctor arose to depart, lie invited me
to call at hit house, as soon as I feltable to walk
o far it being about two miles saying with a
mysterious loek, that if he rightly anderatood
my character, be would thea tell m4 semethuig
which would, at least, not diminish sny if ppi-
nest. n .1
Having, as may well be supposed, a gra cu-
house. . . -
A young lady obeyed my "auinmoM at the
door, at whose appearance I was so struck, that
i nearly fainted. Could it be that my long; lost
Clara stood before me, that she had preserved
'
her youth and beauty untU now I or -was I -
dreaming ? Thera wj th nm TTfnl farm.
ihe tame sweet couutenance,tba same blue yea
and auburn hair, that ouc were hers.- With
trembling steps 1 followed her through the pass
age to the room which was occupied by the doc
tor as au office. He. was injthe room, and -immediately
introduced the young lady to me as
his daughter. My surprise and curiosity were
now thotoughly awakened ; aud I suppose that
my countenance revealed the fact, for, as soon a
his daughter had left the room, he began
u You are, as I supposed you would be, much
surprised at what your eyes have just beheld,
but I will soonsolve the mystery. About three
years after you saw Clara for the last time, she
married the cousin, of whom she spoke to' you
in that last interview; and who was no other
than tiie uu worthy friend who now .addresses
you. We lived happily together as I thought
for two years ; during which time, this daughter
was given to us. But Clara was destined to an
early grave. She took a violent cold, which so
affrcted her lungs, that it Resulted in a sort of
quick consumption; of which fatal disease she
d:ed, after a sickness of only four months. For
a few days previous to her death, her mind was
wandering; but occasionally there were inter
vals when she was perfectly sane. I well remem
ber that at one such lime, she called me to her
b. d side, and wished me to find her miniature
and bring it to her. She took it, and gazed with
n abstracted air, upon it for a long time; -and
tt last, while tear filled her eyes, exclaimed,
Alfred! dear Alfred!' And, closing her. eyes,
Iter lips moved a few momenta as if in prayer ;
and again her mind wandered..- As she had
nercrBelatuuV Xtslb3i'tf?i"drd'
nut question her upon the subject afterward, I
therefore did not know, at that time, the mean
ing of her words ; but when I law that minia
ture of yours, and heard its history, her mean
ing was fully understood. Her's was a happy
death: for a short time previous to her. spirit's
departure, she enjoyed the full possession of her
reason ; and during this brief period, she express
ed much joy at the prospect of .meeting, Him
who had redeemed her from the power of sin,
and had given her such a sure hope of soon join
ing in that song of praise, which is fung by
angel choirs around the throne of God."
Kind reader, the name which Clara murmur
ed upon her death-bed was mine ; but I did not
weep, or feel any emotions of sorrow, for a calm
and holy joy filled my soul a blest assurance,
which i still possess, that beside the " liying
waters" or in the "fair mansions," or on the
celestial mountains of the M better land,". I shall
ere long, meet the radiant form of the saipted,
Clara, when all that now seems dark to me will
be explained to my full satisfaction; aod.w,hen
a love too pure and ethereal for mortal com
prehension shall fill our souls with joy, extatic
and eternal. ,
A Fcll-Bloodkd American. Tim Mullow
ney, a jolly looking tar, with the richest of
brogues, applied at tha Custom House, the, oth
er day, for a " purfectibn " as an American 'citi
zen. He was asked for his naturalization papers.
" Me nateral papers, is it, yer honor wants,"
said Tun, with an insinuating grin, u an me a
fulWblooded American V "
You don't mean to say that you were not
born in Ireland X
Born in Ireland, replied Tim, 44 sure ilu .
But thin, yer honor, I kern from Corfc to ' New
Orleans, last summer; an' there the bloody mind
ed musketeers run their bills into every inch of
me, an sucked out every drop of rne Irish bloodt
good luck to 'em, an now Tin a full-blooded
American." ,
There was some philosophy as well as fan, in
reasoning, but it had no effect, and the "last that
was seen of Tim he was on his way to flie City
Hall, to look for 44 the man that sells the nateral
papers." Ar. F. Dutchman. '' "!
A Law. Storv. A few years agp a couple of
Dutchmen, Von Vampt and Van Bones, lived
on friendly terms on the high hills of limestone.
At last they fell out over a .dog. Von Vampt
killed Van Bones' cauine companion. , Bones,
choosing to assume the.killing to have been in
tentional, sued Vampt for damages. They were
called in due time into court, when the defend
ant in the case was asked by the judge whether
he killed the dog. " Pe aure I kilt him" said
Vampt, but let Bones prove it." This .being
quite satisfactory, the plaintiff in the actipajwas
called -on to answer a few questions, and among
others he aked by the judge at what amount
he estimated the damages. Hedid notell
understand the question, and so, to-be little
plainer, the judge inquired what he tboughttha
dor to be worth- J? Pe .fture, leplied Bones.
1 44 the dog was worth nothing,, but since he was
so mean as to mu mm ue snail pay ae mi vaiue
of him.". Boir many suits have occupied ilji at-,
tentiori of courts how many contesta hav en
gaged the time of the public, and bava jbfeen
waged with. virulence ana; invective, having no
more worthy difference than that of Von Vampt
and Van Bones! ;
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