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AUTUMN LEAVES. 

Original Pieces in Prose and Verse. 

(ANNA WALES ABBOT, Ed. )

"Our wits are so diversely colored. "--Shakespeare. 

Cambridge:John Bartlett. 1853. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, byJohn Bartlett, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District ofMassachusetts. Cambridge:Metcalf and Company, Printers to the University. 

NOTE. 

The pieces gathered into this volume were, with two exceptions, written for the entertainment of a private circle, without any view topublication. The editor would express her thanks to the writers, who, at her solicitation, have allowed them to be printed. They arepublished with the hope of aiding a work of charity, --theestablishment of an Agency for the benefit of the poor inCambridge, --to which the proceeds of the sale will be devoted. 

ANNE W. ABBOT. 

CONTENTS. 

Christmas Revived. In the Churchyard at Cambridge. A Legend of Lady Lee. --H. W. L. The Little South-Wind. Lines Written at the Close of Dr. Holmes's Lectures on English Poetry. Aunt Molly. A Reminiscence of Old Cambridge. The Sounds of Morning in Cambridge. The Sounds of Evening in Cambridge. To the Near-Sighted. Flowers from a Student's Walks. Miseries. No. 1. Miseries. No. 2. A Dark Night. Miseries. No. 3. Twine. Miseries. No. 4. Fresh Air. Farewell. Innocent Surprises. The Old Sailor. Laughter. To Stephen. The Old Church. "Something than beauty dearer. "A Tale found in the Repositories of the Abbots of the Middle Ages. The Sea. Fashion. A Growl. To Jenny Lind. My Herbarium. The Ostrich. Cows. The Home-Beacon. The Fourth of July. From the Papers of Reginald Ratcliffe, Esq. 

AUTUMN LEAVES. 

CHRISTMAS REVIVED. 

It was six o'clock in the morning of last Thursday (Christmasmorning), when Nathan Stoddard, a young saddler, strode through thevacant streets of one of our New England towns, hastening to begin hiswork. The town is an old-fashioned one, and although the observance ofthe ancient church festival is no longer frowned upon, as in yearspast, yet it has been little regarded, especially in the church ofwhich Nathan is a member. As the saddler mounted the steps of hisshop, he felt the blood so rush along his limbs, and tingle in hisfingers, that he could not forbear standing without the door for amoment, as if to enjoy the triumph of the warmth within him over thecold morning air. The little stone church which Nathan attends standsin the same square with his shop, and nearly opposite. It was closed, as usual on Christmas day, and a recent snow had heaped the steps androof, and loaded the windows. Nathan thought that it looked uncommonlybeautiful in the softening twilight of the morning. 

While Nathan stood musing, with his eyes fixed upon the church, hebecame suddenly conscious that another figure had entered the squareupon the opposite side, and was walking hastily along. He turned hiseyes upon it, and was greatly surprised by its appearance. He saw atall old man, although a good deal stooping, with long, straight, andvery white hair falling over his shoulders, which was the moreconspicuous from the black velvet cap, as it appeared, that he wore, and the close-fitting suit of pure black in which he was dressed, andwhich seemed to Nathan almost to glisten and flash as the old mantripped along. He had hardly begun to speculate as to who the strangercould be, when he beheld him turn in between the posts by the paththat leads to the church, tread lightly over the snow, and up thesteps, and knock hastily and vigorously at the church-door. But halfrecovered from his wonder, he was just raising his voice to utter aremonstrance, when, to his sevenfold amazement, the door was opened tothe knock, and the old man disappeared within. 

It was not without a creeping feeling of awe, mingled with hisastonishment, that Nathan gazed upon the door through which thissilent figure had vanished. But he was not easily to be daunted. Hedid not care to follow the steps of the stranger into the church; buthe remembered a shed so placed against the building, near the fartherend, that he had often, when a child, at some peril indeed, climbedupon its top, and looked into the church through a little window atone side of the pulpit. For this he started; but he did not fail torun across the square and leap over the church-gate at the top of hisspeed, in order to gather warmth and courage for the attempt. 

When Nathan Stoddard climbed upon the old shed and pressed his faceagainst the glass of the little church-window, he had at first only aconfused impression of many lamps and many figures in all parts of thechurch. But as his vision grew more clear, he beheld a sight whichcould not amaze him less than the apparition that startled Tam o'Shanter as he glared through the darkness into the old Kirk ofAlloway. The great chandelier of the church was partly lighted, andthere were, besides, many candles and lanterns burning in differentparts of the room, and casting their light upon a large party of youngmen and women, who were dressed in breeches and ruffled shirts, andhooped petticoats and towering head-dresses, such as he had only seenin old pictures. They were mounted upon benches and ladders, andboards laid along the tops of the pews, and were apparently justcompleting the decoration of the church, which was already dressedwith green, with little trees in the corners, and with green lettersupon the walls, and great wreaths about the pillars. The whole partyappeared full of life and cheerfulness, while the old man whom Nathanhad seen enter stood near the door, looking quietly on, with a littlegirl holding his hand. 

It was not until Nathan Stoddard had looked for some little time uponthis spectacle that he began to feel that he was witness of any thingmore than natural. The whole party had so home-like an air, andappeared so engaged with their pleasant occupation, that, notwithstanding their quaint dress, Nathan only thought how much heshould like to share their company. But the more he studied theirfaces, the more he was filled, for all their appearance of youth andtheir simple manners, with a strange sort of veneration. The sweet andcheerful faces of the young women seemed to grow awfully calm andbeautiful as they brought their task to a close, and their foreheads, with the hair brought back in the old-fashioned way, to become moreand more serene and high. There was a strange beauty, too, about theold man's face. He appeared to Nathan as if he felt that the groupbefore him only waited his command to fade away in the morning lightthat struggled among the candles, but he could not bear to give theword; and so they kept playing with the festoons, and stepping aboutthe pews to please him. Nathan felt a cold thrill, partly frompleasure, and partly from awe, running up his back, and a strong painacross his forehead, seldom known to one of his temperament. Again andagain he drew his hand across his brows, until he felt that he wasnear swooning, and like to fall; and he clung desperately to his hold. When the fit was over, he dared venture no more, but hastened to theground. 

It was no fear of ridicule or of incredulity that led Nathan Stoddardto keep secret what he had witnessed. But it was like some deep andholy experience that would lose its charm if it were spoken of toanother. So he went back to his shop, and sat looking upon the church, and watching, almost with dread, the doves that lighted upon its roof, and fluttered about, and beat their wings against its windows. 

The minister of Nathan's parish was a young man by the name of Dudley;and it so happened that he had driven out, before light, on themorning we have spoken of, to visit a sick man at some distance. Inreturning home, he had to pass along the rather unfrequented streetwhich runs in the rear of his church, and close to it. As he wasdriving rapidly along, his ear caught what seemed the peal of anorgan. He stopped his horse to listen, and a moment convinced him thatthe sound both of the instrument and of singing voices came from hisown church; and it was music of a depth and beauty such as he hadnever before heard within it. Filled with astonishment, he put hishorse upon its fastest trot, and drove round into the square, to theshop of Nathan Stoddard. 

"There is music to-day in our church, Nathan!" he cried to the youngsaddler. "What can it mean?" But Nathan answered not a word. He caughtthe horse by the head, and fastened him to a post before thedoor. Then stepping to the side of the sleigh, he said to Mr. Dudley, "Come with me, Sir. " Mr. Dudley looked upon the pale face andtrembling lips of his parishioner, and followed in silence. 

Nathan sprang upon the shed at the side of the church, and scrambledup to the little window. Mr. Dudley followed, and, with Nathan's help, gained the same precarious foothold. "Look in, Sir, " said Nathan, notventuring a glance himself. Mr. Dudley looked, and had not Nathan'sarm been about his body he would have lost his hold, in sheeramazement. The building was crowded, as he had never known it before;and crowded with people whom his eye, versed in the dress and mannersof our forefathers, recognized as the church-goers of a century and ahalf ago. The singers' gallery was filled by a choir of girls andboys, while his own place in the pulpit was occupied by a white-hairedfigure, whom he recognized as the original of a portrait which he hadpurchased and hung in his parlor at home for its singular beauty. Itwas said to be a portrait of a minister in the town, who lived in thelast century, and is still remembered for his virtues. The sight ofthis old man's face completely stilled the agitation of the youngminister. He was leaning over the great Bible, with his hands foldedupon it, and his eyes seemingly filled with tears of pleasure andgratitude, and bent upon the choir. Mr. Dudley listened intently, andcould catch what seemed the words of some old Christmas carol:

 "Thou mak'st my cup of joy run o'er. "

And he was so rapt with the sights and the sounds within, that itneeded all Nathan's endeavors to uphold him. 

By this time the sound of a gathering crowd below, which he had notheeded at first, was forced more and more upon his notice; and theanxious voice of his oldest deacon calling, "Mr. Dudley! Mr. Dudley!"rose high and loud; while a great thundering at the front door of thechurch announced that the people below had also caught the sound ofthe music, and were clamorous for admission. Mr. Dudley hastened roundto prevent their causing any disturbance to the congregation within;but he came only in time to see the door burst open, and to be bornein with the crowd. All gazed about in wonder. The congregation, indeed, were gone, and the preacher, and the choir; and the room wascold. But there was a great green cross over the pulpit, and wordsalong the walls, and festoons upon the galleries, and great wreaths, like vast green serpents, coiled about the cold pillars. The church ofthe Orthodox parish of ---- had been fairly dressed for Christmas byspirit hands. 

When Mr. Dudley reached his home, after the wonder had in part spentitself, he found that an enormous Christmas pie had been left at hisdoor by a white-haired old man dressed in black, about six in themorning, just after he had gone to visit his sick parishioner. Thegirl who received it reported the old man as saying, in a tremulous, but very kind voice, "Give your master the Christmas blessing of anold Puritan minister. " How the meaning of this message would have beenknown to Mr. Dudley, had not the events we have told disclosed it, whocan say?

Need I add, that my friend, Mr. Dudley, from whose lips I have takendown the above narrative, has directed the decorations to remain inhis church during the coming month, and that he avows the intention ofobserving the Christmas of the following year with public services, unless, indeed, he should be anticipated by his ancientpredecessor. It may not be impertinent to observe, that I am invitedto dine and spend the day with the Dudleys on that occasion, and Ishall not fail to make an accurate report of whatever glimpse I mayobtain into the mysterious ceremonies of a Puritan Christmas. 

IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE. 

A LEGEND OF LADY LEE. 

 In the village churchyard she lies, Dust is in her beautiful eyes, No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs; At her feet and at her head Lies a slave to attend the dead, But their dust is white as hers. 

 Was she, a lady of high degree, So much in love with the vanity And foolish pomp of this world of ours? Or was it Christian charity, And lowliness and humility, The richest and rarest of all dowers?

 Who shall tell us? No one speaks; No color shoots into those cheeks, Either of anger or of pride, At the rude question we have asked;-- Nor will the mystery be unmasked By those who are sleeping at her side. 

 Hereafter?--And do you think to look On the terrible pages of that Book To find her failings, faults, and errors? Ah, you will then have other cares, In your own short-comings and despairs, In your own secret sins and terrors!

 H. W. L. 

THE LITTLE SOUTH-WIND. 

The little south-wind had been shut up for many days, while his cousinfrom the northeast had been abroad, and the clouds had been heavy anddark; but now all was bright and clear, and the little south-wind wasto have a holiday. O, how happy he would be! He sallied forth to amusehimself;--and hear what he did. He came whistling down the chimney, until the nervous old lady was ready to fly with vexation: then awayhe flew, laughing in triumph, --the naughty south-wind! He played withthe maiden's work: away the pieces flew, some here, some there, andaway ran the maiden after. What cared _she_ for the wind? She tossedback her curls and laughed merrily, and the wind laughed merrilytoo, --the silly south-wind! Onward he stole, and lifting thecurtain, --curious south-wind!--what did he see? On the sofa lay ayoung man: a heavy book was in his hand. The little south-wind rustledthrough the leaves, but the young man stirred not; he was asleep; hotand weary, he slept. The wind fanned his brow awhile, lifted his darklocks, and, leaving a kiss behind, stole out at the casement, --thegentle south-wind! Then he met a little child: away he whirled thelittle boy's hat, away ran the child, but his little feet were tired, and he wept, --poor child! The wind looked back, and felt sad, thenhung the hat on a bush, and went on. He had played too hard, --thethoughtless south-wind! A sick child lay tossing to and fro: its handsand face were hot and dry. The mother raised the window. The windheard her as he was creeping by, and stepping in, he cooled theburning face: then, playing among the flowers until their fragrancefilled the room, away he flew, --the kind south-wind! He went out intothe highway, and played with the dust; but that was not so pleasant, and onward he sped to the meadow. The dust could not follow on thegreen grass, and the little south-wind soon outstripped it, and onwardand onward he sped, over mountain and valley, dancing among theflowers, and frolicking round, until the trees lifted up their armsand bent their heads and shook their sides with glee, --the happysouth-wind! At last he came to a quiet dell, where a little brook lay, just stirring among his white pebbles. The wind said, "Kind brook, will you play with me?" And the brook answered with a sparkling smile, and a gentle murmur. Then the wind rose up, and, sporting among thedark pines, whistled and sung through the lofty branches, while thepretty brook danced along, and warbled songs to the music of its merrycompanion, --the merry south-wind! But the sun had gone down and thestars were peeping forth, and the day was done. The happy south-windwas still, and the moon looked down on the world below, and watchedamong the trees and hills, but all was still: the little south-windslumbered, and the moon and the stars kept guard, --poor, tiredsouth-wind! Old lady and maiden, young man and child, the dust and theflowers, were forgotten, and he slept, --dear little south-wind!

LINES

WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF DR. HOLMES'S LECTURES ON ENGLISH POETRY. 

[Footnote: The Poets are metaphorically introduced as follows. ROGERS, _The Beech_; CAMPBELL, _The Fir_; BYRON, _The Oak_; MOORE, _The Elm_; SCOTT, _The Chestnut_; SOUTHEY, _The Holly_; COLERIDGE, _The Magnolia_; KEATS, _The Orange_; WORDSWORTH, _The Pine_; TENNYSON, _The Palm_; FELICIA HEMANS, _The Locust_; ELIZABETH BARRETTBROWNING, _The Laurel_. ]

 Farewell! farewell! The hours we've stolen From scenes of worldly strife and stir, To live with poets, and with thee, Their brother and interpreter, Have brought us wealth;--as thou hast reaped, We have not followed thee in vain, But gathered, in one precious sheaf, The pearly flower and golden grain. 

 For twelve bright hours, with thee we walked Within a magic garden's bound, Where trees, whose birth owned various climes, Beneath one sky were strangely found. 

 First in the group, an ancient BEECH His shapely arms abroad did fling, Wearing old Autumn's russet crown Among the lively tints of Spring. 

 Those pale brown leaves the winds of March Made vocal 'mid the silent trees, And spread their faint perfume abroad, Like sad, yet pleasant memories. 

 Near it, the vigorous, noble FIR Arose, with firm yet graceful mien; Welcome for shelter or for shade, A pyramid of living green. 

 And from the tender, vernal spray The sunny air such fragrance drew, As breathes from fields of strawberries wild, All bathed in morning's freshest dew. 

 The OAK his branches richly green Broad to the winds did wildly fling;-- The first in beauty and in power, All bowed before the forest-king. 

 But ere its brilliant leaves were sere, Or scattered by the Autumn wind, Fierce lightnings struck its glories down, And left a blasted trunk behind. 

 A youthful ELM its drooping boughs In graceful beauty bent to earth, As if to touch, with reverent love, The kindly soil that gave it birth;--

 And round it, in such close embrace, Sweet honeysuckles did entwine, We knew not if the south wind caught Its odorous breath from tree or vine. 

 The CHESTNUT tall, with shining leaves And yellow tassels covered o'er, The sunny Summer's golden pride, And pledge of Autumn's ruddy store, --

 Though grander forms might near it rise, And sweeter blossoms scent the air, -- Was still a favorite 'mongst the trees That flourished in that garden fair. 

 All brightly clad in glossy green, And scarlet berries gay to see, We welcome next a constant friend, The brilliant, cheerful HOLLY-TREE. 

 But twilight falls upon the scene; Rich odors fill the evening air; And, lighting up the dusky shades, Gleam the MAGNOLIA'S blossoms fair. 

 The fire-fly, with its fairy lamp, Flashes within its soft green bower; The humming sphinx flits in and out, To sip the nectar of its flower. 

 Now the charmed air, more richly fraught, To steep our senses in delight, Comes o'er us, as the ORANGE-TREE In beauty beams upon our sight;

 And, glancing through its emerald leaves, White buds and golden fruits are seen; Fit flowers to deck the bride's pale brow, Fit fruit to offer to a queen. 

 But let me rest beneath the PINE, And listen to the low, sad tone Its music breathes, that o'er my soul Comes like the ocean's solemn moan. 

 Erect it stands in graceful strength; Its spire points upward to the sky; And nestled in its sheltering arms The birds of heaven securely lie. 

 And though no gaily painted bells, Nor odor-bearing urns, are there, When the west wind sighs through its boughs, Let me inhale the balmy air!

 The stately PALM in conscious pride Lifts its tall column to the sky, While round it fragrant air-plants cling, Deep-stained with every gorgeous dye. 

 Linger with me a moment, where The LOCUST trembles in the breeze, In soft, transparent verdure drest, Contrasting with the darker trees. 

 The humming-bird flies in among Its boughs, with pure white clusters hung, And honey-bees come murmuring, where Its perfume on the air is flung. 

 A noble LAUREL meets our gaze, Ere yet we leave these alleys green. 'Mongst many stately, fair, and sweet, The DAPHNE ODORA stands a queen. 

May 2, 1853. 

AUNT MOLLY. 

A REMINISCENCE OF OLD CAMBRIDGE. 

In looking back upon my early days, one of the images that rises mostvividly to my mind's eye is that of Miss Molly ----, or Aunt Molly, asshe was called by some of her little favorites, that is to say, abouta dozen girls, and (not complimentary to the _un_fair sex, to be sure)one boy. There was one, who, even to Miss Molly, was not a torment anda plague; and I must confess he was a pleasant specimen of thegenus. At the time of which I speak, the great awkward barn of aschool-house on the Common, near the Appian Way, had not reared itsimposing front. In its place, in the centre of a grass-plot that wasone of the very first to look green in spring, and kept its verdurethrough the heats of July, stood the brown, one-storied cottage whichshe owned, and in which the aged woman lived, alone. Her garden andclothes-yard behind the house were fenced in; but in front, thevisitor to the cottage, unimpeded by gate or fence, turned up thepretty green slope directly from the street to the lowly door. 

As I have started for a walk into the old times, and am not bound byany rule to stick to the point, I will here digress to say that theEpiscopal Church (_the Church_, as it was simply called, when all therest were "meeting-houses"), that tells the traveller what a pure andtrue taste was once present in Cambridge, and, by the contrast itpresents to the architectural blunders that abound in the place, tellsalso what a want of it there is now, --this beautiful church stood mostappropriately and tastefully surrounded by the green turf, unbroken bystiff gravel walks or coach sweep, and undivided from the public walkby a fence. Behind the church, and forming a part of its own grounds, (where now exist the elegances of School Court, ) was an unappropriatedfield; and that spot was considered, by a certain little group ofchildren, of six or seven years old, the most solitary, gloomy, mysterious place in their little world. When the colors of sunset haddied out in the west, and the stillness and shadow of twilight werecoming on, they used to "snatch a fearful joy" in seeing one of theirnumber (whose mother had kindly omitted the first lesson usuallytaught to little girls, to be afraid of every thing) perform the featof going slowly around the church, alone, stopping behind it to counta hundred. Her wonderful courage in actually protecting the wholegroup from what they called a "flock of cows, " and in staking andpatting the "mad dogs" that they were for ever meeting, was nothing tothis _going round the church!_

But to return to the cottage, from which the pretty, rural trait ofits standing in its unfenced green door-yard led me away to notice thesame sort of rustic beauty where the church stood. We did not stop toknock at the outside door, --for Aunt Molly was very deaf, and if wehad knocked our little knuckles off she would not have heard us, --butwent in, and, passing along the passage, rapped at the door of the"common room, " half sitting-room, half kitchen, and wereadmitted. Those who saw her for the first time, whether children orgrown people, were generally afraid of her; for her voice, unmodulated, of course, by the ear, was naturally harsh, strong, andhigh-toned; and the sort of half laugh, half growl, that she utteredwhen pleased, might have suggested to an imaginative child the howl ofa wolf. She had very large features, and sharp, penetrating blackeyes, shaded by long, gray lashes, and surmounted by thick, bushy, gray eyebrows. I think that when she was scolding the school-boys, with those eyes fiercely "glowering" at them from under the shaggygray thatch, she must have appeared to those who in their learned pagehad got as far as the Furies, like a living illustration of classiclore. Her cap and the make of her dress were peculiar, and suggestiveof those days before, and at the time of, the Revolution, of which sheloved to speak. 

But we, her little favorites, were not afraid of her. To go into hergarden in summer, and eat currants, larger and sweeter than any wefound at home, --to look up at the enormous old damson-tree, when itwas white with blossoms, and the rich honey-comb smell was diffusedover the whole garden, --was a pleasant little excursion to us. Shetook great care and pains to save the plums from the plundering boys, because it was the only real damson there was anywhere in theneighborhood, and she found a ready sale for them, for preserves. Sheseemed to think that the _real damsons_ went out with the _realgentry_ of the olden time; and perhaps they did, _as_ damsons, though, for aught I know, they may figure now in our fruit catalogues as "TheDuke of Argyle's New Seedling Acidulated Drop of Damascus, "--whichwould be something like a translation of Damson into the modernterminology. 

But more pleasant still was it to go into Aunt Molly's "best room. "The walls she had papered herself, with curious stripes and oddpieces, of various shapes and patterns, ornamented with a border offigures of little men and women joining hands, cut from paper of allcolors; and they were adorned, besides, with several prints in shiningblack frames. There was no carpet on the snow-white, unpainted floor, but various mats and rugs, of all the kinds into which ingenuity hastransformed woollen rags, were disposed about it. The bed was thepride and glory of the room, however; for on it was spread a silkpatchwork quilt, made of pieces of the brocade and damask and elegantsilks, of which the ladies belonging to the grand old Tory familieshad their gowns and cardinals, and other paraphernalia, made. AuntMolly had been a mantuamaker to the old "quality, " and she could showus a piece of Madam Vassall's gown on that wonderful and brilliantpiece of work, the bed-quilt. "On that hint" she would speak. 

"A-haw-awr! They were _real gentle_ folks that lived in _them_ days. A-haw-awr! I declare, I could e'en-amost kneel down and kiss the veryairth they trod on, as they went by my house to church. Polite, _theywor!_ Yes, they knew what true politeness was; and to my thinking truepoliteness is next to saving grace. "

Once a year, or so, Aunt Molly would dress up in her best gown, ablack silk, trimmed with real black lace, and a real lace cap, relicsof the good old days of Toryism and brocade and the real gentry, andgo to make an afternoon visit to one of her neighbors. After the usualsalutations, the lady would ask her visitor to take off her bonnet andstay the afternoon, knowing by the "rig" that such was her intention. But she liked to be urged a little, so she would say, "O, I only cameout for a little walk, it was so pleasant, and stopped in to see howlittle Henry did, since his sickness. You know I always call him _myboy_. " (Yes, Aunt Molly, the only boy in the universe that, for you, had any good in him. ) After the proper amount of urging, she would layaside her bonnet and black satin mantle, saying, "Well, I didn't comehere to get my tea, but you are so urgent, I believe I will stay. "

Aunt Molly's _asides_ were often amusing. She was so very deaf thatshe could not hear her own voice, and often imagined she waswhispering, when she could be heard across the room. 

On one occasion she saw a gentleman who was a stranger to her, in theparlor, when she went to visit one of the ladies who were kind andattentive to her. She sat a few minutes looking keenly at him, andthen whispered, "Who's that?" "Mr. Jay. " "Who?" "MR. JAY. " "Who?""MR. JAY. " "Oh-o-oh! Mr. Jay. Well, what does he do for a living?""He's a tutor, Ma'am. " "What?" "A TUTOR. " "What?" "A TUTOR. ""Oh-o-oh! I thought you said a suitor!"

Aunt Molly owned the little brown cottage, where her widowed mother, she said, had lived, and there she died. As soon as she was laid inher grave, it was torn down, and the precious damson-tree wasfelled. I was rather glad that the school-house was so ugly, that Imight have a double reason for hating the usurper. If Nemesis caredfor school-boys, she doubtless looks on with a grin, now, to see themscampering at their will round the precincts of the former enemy oftheir race, and listens with pleasure while they "make _day_ hideous"where once the bee and the humming-bird only broke the quiet of thelittle garden. 

Aunt Molly had a vigorous, active mind, and a strong, tenaciousmemory; and her love of the departed grandeur and Toryism of CourtRow, as she called that part of Brattle Street from Ash Street toMount Auburn, was pleasant and entertaining to those who listened toher tales of other times. 

Peace to her memory!

THE SOUNDS OF MORNING IN CAMBRIDGE. 

 I sing the melodies of early morn. Hark!--'t is the distant roar of iron wheels, First sound of busy life, and the shrill neigh Of vapor-steed, the vale of Brighton threading, Region of lowing kine and perfumed breeze. Echoes the shore of blue meandering Charles. Straightway the chorus of glad chanticleers Proclaims the dawn. First comes one clarion note, Loud, clear, and long drawn out; and hark! again Rises the jocund song, distinct, though distant; Now faint and far, like plaintive cry for help Piercing the ear of Sleep. Each knight o' the spur, Watchful as brave, and emulous in noise, With mighty pinions beats a glad _reveille_. All feathered nature wakes. Man's drowsy sense Heeds not the trilling band, but slumbrous waits The tardy god of day. Ah! sluggard, wake! Open thy blind, and rub thy heavy eyes! For once behold a sunrise. Is there aught In thy dream-world more splendid, or more fair? With crimson glory the horizon streams, And ghostly Dian hides her face ashamed. Now to the ear of him who lingers long On downy couch, "falsely luxurious, " Comes the unwelcome din of college-bell Fast tolling. . . . . . "'T is but the earliest, the warning peal!" He sleeps again. Happy if bustling chum, Footsteps along the entry, or perchance, In the home bower, maternal knock and halloo, Shall break the treacherous slumber. For behold The youth collegiate sniff the morning zephyrs, Breezes of brisk December, frosty and keen, With nose incarnadine, peering above Each graceful shepherd's plaid the chin enfolding. See how the purple hue of youth and health Glows in each cheek; how the sharp wind brings pearls From every eye, brightening those dimmed with study, And waste of midnight oil, o'er classic page Long poring. Boreas in merry mood Plays with each unkempt lock, and vainly strives To make a football of the Freshman's beaver, Or the sage Sophomore's indented felt. Behold the foremost, with deliberate stride And slow, approach the chapel, tree-embowered, Entering composedly its gaping portal; Then, as the iron tongue goes on to rouse The mocking echoes with its call, arrive Others, with hastier step and heaving chest. Anon, some bound along divergent paths Which scar the grassy plain, and, with no pause For breath, press up the rocky stair. Straightway, A desperate few, with headlong, frantic speed, Swifter than arrow-flight or Medford whirlwind, Sparks flying from iron-shod heels at every footfall, Over stone causeway and tessellated pavement, -- They come--they come--they leap--they scamper in, Ere, grating on its hinges, slams the door Inexorable. . . . . . Pauses the sluggard, at Wood and Hall's just crossing, The chime melodious dying on his ear. Embroidered sandals scarce maintain their hold Upon his feet, shuffling, with heel exposed, And 'neath his upper garment just appears A many-colored robe; about his throat No comfortable scarf, but crumpled _gills_ Shrink from the scanning eye of passenger The omnibus o'erhauling. List! 't was the last, Last stroke! it dies away, like murmuring wave. Bootless he came, --and bootless wends he back, Gnawing his gloveless thumb, and pacing slow. Bright eyes might gaze on him, compassionate, But that yon rosy maiden, early afoot, Is o'er her shoulder watching, with wild fear, A horned host that rushes by amain, Bellowing bassoon-like music. Angry shouts Of drovers, horrid menace, and dire curse, Shrill scream of imitative boy, and crack Of cruel whip, the tread of clumsy feet Are hurrying on:--but now, with instinct sure, Madly those doomed ones bolt from the dread road That leads to Brighton and to death. They charge Up Brattle Street. Screaming the maiden flies, Nor heeds the loss of fluttering veil, upborne On sportive breeze, and sailing far away. And now a flock of sheep, bleating, bewildered, With tiny footprints fret the dusty square, And huddling strive to elude relentless fate. And hark! with snuffling grunt, and now and then A squeak, a squad of long-nosed gentry run The gutters to explore, with comic jerk Of the investigating snout, and wink At passer-by, and saucy, lounging gait, And independent, lash-defying course. And now the baker, with his steaming load, Hums like the humble-bee from door to door, And thoughts of breakfast rise; and harmonies Domestic, song of kettle, and hissing urn, Glad voices, and the sound of hurrying feet, Clatter of chairs, and din of knife and fork, Bring to a close the Melodies of Morn. 

THE SOUNDS OF EVENING IN CAMBRIDGE. 

 The Melodies of Morning late I sang. Recall we now those Melodies of Even Which charmed our ear, the summer-day o'erpast; Full of the theme, O Phoebus, hear me sing. What time thy golden car draws near its goal, -- Mount Auburn's pillared summit, --chorus loud Of mud-born songsters fills the dewy air. Hark! in yon shallow pool, what melody Is poured from swelling throats, liquid and bubbling, As if the plaintive notes thrilled struggling through The stagnant waters and the waving reeds. Monotonous the melancholy strain, Save when the bull-frog, from some slimy depth Profound, sends up his deep "Poo-toob!" "Poo-toob!" Like a staccato note of double bass Marking the cadence. The unwearied crickets Fill up the harmony; and the whippoorwill His mournful solo sings among the willows. The tree-toad's pleasant trilling croak proclaims A coming rain; a welcome evil, sure, When streets are one long ash-heap, and the flowers Fainting or crisp in sun-baked borders stand. Mount Auburn's gate is closed. The latest 'bus Down Brattle Street goes rumbling. Laborers Hie home, by twos and threes; homeliest phizzes, Voices high-pitched, and tongues with telltale burr-r-r-r, The short-stemmed pipe, diffusing odors vile, Garments of comic and misfitting make, And steps which tend to Curran's door, (a man Ignoble, yet quite worthy of the name Of Fill-pot Curran, ) all proclaim the race Adopted by Columbia, grumblingly, When their step-mother country casts them off. Here with a creaking barrow, piled with tools Keen as the wit that wields them, hurries by A man of different stamp. His well-trained limbs Move with a certain grace and readiness, Skilful intelligence every muscle swaying. Rapid his tread, yet firm; his scheming brain Teems with broad plans, and hopes of future wealth, And time and life move all too slow for him. Will he industrious gains and home renounce To grow more quickly rich in lands unblest? Hear'st thou that gleeful shout? Who opes the gate, The neatly painted gate, and runs before With noisy joy? Now from the trellised door Toddles another bright-haired boy. And now Captive they lead the father; strong their grasp; He cannot break away. Dreamily quiet The dewy twilight of a summer eve. Tired mortals lounge at casement or at door, While deepening shadows gather round. No lamp Save in yon shop, whose sable minister His evening customers attends. Anon, With squeaking bucket on his arm, emerges The errand-boy, slow marching to the tune Of "Uncle Ned" or "Norma, " whistled shrill. Hark! heard you not against the window-pane The dash of horny skull in mad career, And a loud buzz of terror? He'll be in, This horrid beetle; yes, --and in my hair! Close all the blinds; 't is dismal, but 't is safe. Listen! Methought I heard delicious music, Faint and afar. Pray, is the Boat-Club out? Do the Pierian minstrels meet to-night? Or chime the bells of Boston, or the Port? Nearer now, nearer--Ah! bloodthirsty villain, Is 't you? Too late I closed the blind! Alas! List! there's another trump!--There, _two_ of 'em!-- Two? A quintette at least. Mosquito chorus! A--ah! my cheek! And oh! again, my eyelid! I gave myself a stunning cuff on the ear And all in vain. Flap we our handkerchief; Flap, flap! (A smash. ) Quick, quick, bring in a lamp! I've switched a flower-vase from the shelf. Ah me! Splash on my head, and then upon my feet, The water poured;--I'm drowned! my slipper's full! My dickey--ah! 't is cruel! Flowers are nonsense! I'd have them amaranths all, or made of paper. Here, wring my neckcloth, and rub down my hair! Now Mr. Brackett, punctual man, is ringing The curfew bell; 't is nine o'clock already. 'T is early bedtime, yet methinks 't were joy On mattress cool to stretch supine. At midnight, Were it winter, I were less fatigued, less sleepy. Sleep! I invoke thee, "comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled waves of life, And hushest them to peace. " All hail the man Who first invented bed! O, wondrous soft This pillow to my weary head! right soon My dizzy thoughts shall o'er the brink of sleep Fall into chaos and be lost. I dream. Now comes mine enemy, not silently, But with insulting and defiant warning; Come, banquet, if thou wilt; I offer thee My cheek, my arm. Tease me not, hovering high With that continuous hum; I fain would rest. Come, do thy worst at once. Bite, scoundrel, bite! Thou insect vulture, seize thy helpless prey! No ceremony! (I'd have none with thee, Could I but find thee. ) Fainter now and farther The tiny war-whoop; now I hear it not. A cowardly assassin he; he waits, Full well aware that I am on the alert, With murderous intent. Perchance he's gone, Hawk-eye and nose of hound not serving him To find me in the dark. With a long sigh, I beat my pillow, close my useless eyes, And soon again my thoughts whirl giddily, Verging towards dreams. Starting, I shake my bed;-- Loud thumps my heart, --rises on end my hair! A murder-screech, and yells of frantic fury, Under my very window, --a duet Of fiendish hatred, battle to the death, -- 'T is enough to enrage a man! Missile I seize, Not caring what, and with a savage "Scat!" That scrapes my throat, let drive. I would it were A millstone! Swiftly through the garden beds And o'er the fence on either side they fly; I to my couch return, but not to sleep. Weary I toss, and think 't is almost dawn, So still the streets; but now the latest train, Whistling melodiously, comes in; the tramp Of feet, and hum of voices, echo far In the still night air. Now with joy I feel My eyelids droop once more. To sleep and dream Is bliss unspeakable;--I'm going off;-- What was I thinking last?--slowly I rise On downy pinions; dreaming, I fly, I soar;-- Through the clouds my way I'm winging, Angels to their harps are singing, Strains of unearthly sweetness lull me, And thrilling harmonies----"Yelp! Bow-wow-wow!" "Get out!"--"The dog has got me by the leg!" "Stave him off! Will you? See, he's rent my pants, My newest plaid!--Kick him!"--"Yow, yow!"--"This house I'll never serenade again!--A dog Should know musicians from suspicious chaps, And gentlemen from rowdies, even at night!" "Beat him again!" "No, no! Perhaps 't is HERS! A _lady's pet!_ Methinks the curtain moves! She's looking out! Let's sing once more! Just once!" "Not I. --I'll sing no more to-night!" and steps Limping unequally, and grumbling voice, Pass round the corner, and are heard no more. 

TO THE NEAR-SIGHTED. 

Purblind and short-sighted friends! You will listen to me, --_you_ willsympathize with me; for you know by painful experience what I meanwhen I say that we near-sighted people do not receive from ourhawk-eyed neighbors that sympathy and consideration to which we arejustly entitled. If we were blind, we should be abundantly pitied, butas we are only half-blind, such comments as these are all theconsolation we get. "Oh! _near-sighted_, is she? Yes, it is veryfashionable now-a-days for young ladies to carry eye-glasses, and callthemselves near-sighted!" Or, "Pooh! It's all affectation. She can seeas well as any body, if she chooses. She thinks it is pretty to halfshut her eyes, and cut her acquaintances. " I meet my friend A----, some morning, who returns my salutation with cold politeness, andsays, "How cleverly you managed to cut me at the concert last night!""At the concert! I did not see you. " "O no! You could see well enoughto bow to pretty Miss B----, and her handsome cousin; but as forseeing your old schoolmate, two seats behind her, --of course you aretoo near-sighted!" In vain I protest that I could not see her, --thatthree yards is a great distance to my eyes. She leaves me with anincredulous smile, and that most provoking phrase, "O yes! I _suppose_so!" and distrusts me ever afterwards. Alas! we see just enough toseal our own condemnation. 

Who is free from this malady? As I look around in society, I seestaring glassy ellipses on every side "in the place where eyes oughtto grow, "--and perhaps most of the unfortunate owls get along verycomfortably with their artificial eyes. But imagine a bashful youth, awkward and near-sighted, whose friends dissuade him from wearingglasses. Is there in the universe an individual more unlucky, moreblundering, more sincerely to be pitied?

See that little boy, who, having put on his father's spectacles, isenjoying for the first time a clear and distinct view of the eveningsky. "Oh! is that pretty little yellow dot a star?" exclaims thedelighted child. Poor innocent! a star had always been to him a dim, cloudy spot, a little nebula, which the magic glass has now resolved;and he can hardly believe that this brilliant point is not an opticalillusion. But when his mother assures him that the stars always appearso to her, and he turns to look in her face, he says, "Why, mother!how beautiful you look! Please to give me some little spectacles, _all my own!_" She could not resist this entreaty, --(who could?)--andlittle "Squire Specs" does not mind the shouts of his companions orthe high-sounding nicknames they give him, he so rejoices in whatseems to him a new sense, a _second sight_. 

I was summoned, the other day, to welcome a family of cousins from adistant State, whom I had not seen for a very long time. They wereaccompanied, I was told, by a Boston lady, a stranger to us. I enteredthe room with considerable _empressement_, but when my eye detectedthe dim outline of a circle of bonneted figures, I stopped in despairin the middle of the room, not knowing which was which, or whom Iought to speak to first, and at last made an embarrassed half-bow, half-courtesy, to the company in general. A confused murmur ofgreetings and introductions followed, and, throwing aside my air ofstiff, ceremonious politeness, I rushed, with a smiling face, to thenearest lady, shook hands with her in the most cordial manner, andthen, in passing, bowed formally to the next, who I concluded was thestranger. What then was my surprise and utter confusion when shecaught me by the hand, and, drawing me towards her, kissed meemphatically several times. "How _do_ you do, dear? Have you quiteforgotten me? Ah! You don't remember the times when you used to ride acock-horse, on my knee, to Banbury Cross, to see the old lady get onher white horse!" What could I say? I was petrified. I could notsmile, I could not speak. My only feeling was mortification at my mostawkward mistake. Yet I ought to have become accustomed to suchembarrassments, for they are of very frequent occurrence. 

"Why, Julia! what is the matter? How strangely your eyes look!" Mysister at this exclamation turns round, and I discover that from theother end of the room I have been gazing at the unexpressive featuresof her "back hair, " which is twisted in a "pug, " or "bob, "--which isthe correct term?--and surmounted by a tortoise-shell comb. 

But in the whole course of my numerous mistakes and blunders, whetherludicrous, serious, or embarrassing, I believe I have never mistaken acow for a human being, as was done by old Dr. E----. It was many yearsago, when Boston Common was still used as a pasture, and cows weredaily to be met in the crooked streets of the city, that thisgentleman, distinguished for the courtesy and old-school politeness ofhis manner, no less than for his extreme near-sightedness, was walkingat a brisk pace, one winter's day, and saw, just before him, a lady, as he thought, richly dressed in furs. As he was passing her, hethought he perceived that her fur boa or tippet had escaped from herneck, and, carefully lifting the end of it with one hand, he made alow bow, raising his hat with the other, and said in his blandesttone, "Madam, you are losing your tippet!" And what thanks did theworthy Doctor receive, do you think, for this truly kind and politedeed? Why, the lady merely turned her head, gave him a wondering starewith her large eyes, and said, "Moo-o-o-o!"

As an offset to this instance of courtesy and good-breeding lavishedon a cow, let me give you, as a parting _bon-bouche_, another cowanecdote, where, as you will see, there was no gentle politenesswasted. 

The Rev. Dr. H---- was an eccentric old man, near-sighted ofcourse, --all eccentric people are, --who lived in a small country townin this neighborhood. Numerous are the traditionary accounts of hispeculiarities, --of his odd manners and customs, --which I have heard;but it is only of one little incident that I am now going to speak. Afavorite employment of this good man was the care of his garden, andhe might be seen any pleasant afternoon in summer, rigged out in ahideous yellow calico robe, or blouse, with a dusty old black strawhat stuck on the back of his head, hoeing and digging in that belovedpatch of ground. One day as he was thus occupied, his wife emergedfrom the house, dressed in a dark brown gingham, and bearing in herhand some "muslins, " which she began to spread upon thegooseberry-bushes to whiten. She was very busily engaged, so that shewas not aware that her husband was approaching her with a large stick, until she felt a smart blow across her shoulders, and heard hispeculiar, sharp voice shouting in her ears, "Go 'long! old cow! Go'long! old cow!"

FLOWERS FROM A STUDENT'S WALKS. 

As the animal dies of inanition if fed on but one kind of food, however congenial, yet lives if he has all in succession, so is itwith complex man. 

Learn retrenchment from the starving oyster, who spends his lastenergies in a new pearly layer suited to his shrunken form. 

As animals which have no organs of special sense know not light orsound as we do, yet shrink from a hand or candle because their wholebodies are dimly conscious, thus we have a glimmering perception ofinfinite truths and existences which we cannot grasp or fully knowbecause our minds have no special organs for them. 

The prick in the butterfly's wing will be in the full-grown insect agreat blemish. The speck in thy child's nature, if fondly overlookednow, will become a wide rent traversing all his virtues. 

As mineral poisons kill, because by their strong affinity theydecompose the blood and form new stony substances, so the soulpossessed by too strong an affinity for gold petrifies. 

Our principles are central forces, our desires tangential; it requiresboth to describe the curve of life. 

The slightest inclination of a standing body virtually narrows itsbase; the least departure from integrity lessens our foundation. Thepyramid, broad-based, yet heaven-pointed, is the firmest figure. Mostcharacters are inconsistent, unsymmetrical, and have a base wantingextent in some direction. 

Be not over-curious in assigning causes or predicting consequences;the same diagonal may be formed by various combining forces. 

Through water the musical sound is not transmitted, only the harshmaterial noise. In air the noise is heard very near, the musicalsounds only are transmitted. Be thankful, poets and prophets, when youlive in an element such that your uncomely features are known only toyour own village. 

"Do not sing its fundamental note too loud near a delicate glass, orit will break, " whispered my friend to me, as he saw me gazing at thislovely being. 

Seek the golden mean of life. Like the temperate regions, it has butfew thorny plants. 

Be doubly careful of those to whom nature has been a niggard. The oakand the palm take their own forms under all circumstances; the fungiseem to owe theirs to outward influences. 

It is a poor plant that crisps quickly into wood. It is a meagrecharacter which runs perpetually into prejudices. 

As light suffers from no change of medium when it fallsperpendicularly, so the consequences of a perfectly upright action, orcause of action, are strictly fortunate. But let it be ever so littleoblique, the new medium will exaggerate its obliquity; and the fartherit departs from uprightness, the more frightfully it is distorted. 

Hoops and coins, which cannot preserve their equilibrium when in rest, keep it when set in motion. Man also in activity finds his safestposition. 

As it takes a diamond to cut and shape a diamond, so there are faultsso obstinate that they can be worn away only by life-long contact withsimilar faults in those we love. 

Learn the virtue of action. Who inquires whether momentum comes frommass or velocity? But velocity has this advantage; it depends onourselves. 

The grass is green after these October rains, because in the Julydrought it struck deep roots. 

MISERIES. 

No. 1. 

Did you ever try to eat a peach elegantly and gracefully? Of courseyou have. Show me a man who has not tried the experiment, when underthe restraint of human surveillance, and I shall look upon him as acuriosity. There is no fruit, certainly, which has so fair andalluring an exterior; but few content themselves with feasting theireyes upon it. How fresh and ripe it looks as it lies upon the plate, with its rosy cheek turned temptingly upward! How cool and soft is thedowny skin to the touch! And the fragrance, so suggestive of its rich, delicious flavor, who can resist? Ah, unhappy wight! Bitterly youshall repent your rashness. Any other fruit can be eaten withcomparative ease and politeness; a peach was evidently intended onlyto be looked at, or enjoyed beneath your own tree, where no eye maywatch and criticize your motions. 

I see you, in imagination, at a party, standing in the middle of theroom, plate in hand, regarding your peach as if it were some greatnatural curiosity. A sudden jog of your elbow compels you to asuccession of most dexterous balancings as your heavy peach rolls fromside to side, knocks down your knife, and threatens to plunge after itwhen you stoop to regain it. You look distractedly round for a table, but all are occupied. Even the corner of the mantel-shelf holds aplate, and you enviously see the owner thereof leaning carelesslyagainst the chimney, and looking placidly round upon his lessfortunate companions. You glance at the different groups to see if anyone else is in your most unenviable predicament. Ah, yes! Yonderstands a gentleman worse off yet, for, in addition to yourperplexities, he is talking with a young, laughing girl, who iswatching his movements, with a merry twinkle in her bright eyes. Heevidently wishes to astonish her by his dexterity, and disappoint herroguish expectations. He holds his plate firmly in his left hand, andproceeds, at once, to cut his peach in halves. Deuce take the bluntsilver knife! The tough skin resists its pressure. The knife and plateclash loudly together; the peach is bounding and rolling at the veryfeet of the young lady, who is in an ecstasy of laughter. Ah! sheherself has no small resemblance to a peach, fair, beautiful, andattractive without, and, I sadly fear, with a hard heart beneath. 

Are you yet more miserable than before? Turn then to yondersober-looking gentleman, who certainly seems sufficiently composed toperform the difficult manoeuvre. He has the advantage of a table to besure; but that is not every thing. He begins right, by deliberatelyremoving the woolly skin. Now he lays the slippery peach in his plate, and makes a plunge at it with his knife. A sharp, prolonged screechacross his plate salutes the ears of all the bystanders, and a fineslice of juicy pulp is flung unceremoniously into the face of thegentleman opposite, who certainly does not look very grateful for theunexpected gift. 

Every one, of course, has seen the awkward accident. O no! Thatpretty, animated girl upon the sofa is much too pleasantly engaged, that is evident, to be watching her neighbors. Playing carelessly withher fan, and casting many sparkling glances upward at the twogentlemen who are vying with each other in their gallant attentions, she has enough to do without noticing other people. She is happilyunconscious of the mortification which is in store for her, orwilfully shuts her eyes to the peril. Alas! Her hand is resting, evennow, upon the destroyer of all her present enjoyment, the beautiful, fragrant, treacherous peach. With a nonchalance really shocking to theanxious beholder, she raises it, and breaks it open, talking thewhile, and scarcely bestowing a thought upon what she is about. Dexterously done; but--O luckless maiden!--the fruit is ripe, andrich, and juicy, and the running drops fall, not into her plate, butupon the delicate folds of her dress. 

The merry repartee dies away upon her lips, as she becomes consciousof the catastrophe. It is with a forced smile that she declares, "Itis nothing; O, not of the slightest consequence!" That unlucky peach!How many blunders, how many pauses, how many absent-minded remarks itoccasions! She makes the most frenzied attempts to regain her formergayety, but in vain. Her gloves are stained and sticky with theflowing juice, and she is oppressed by the conviction that all herpartners for the rest of the evening will hate her most heartily. Anexpression of real vexation steals over her pretty face, and she givesup her plate to one of the attendant beaux, with not so much as a wishthat he will return to her. Where are the arch smiles, the livelytones, the quick and ready responses now? Her spirit is quenched. Hermanner has become subdued, depressed, --shall I say it?--yes, evensulky. 

Ah! I see your courage will not brave laughter. You steal to thetable, half ashamed of yourself as you set down your untasted peach. Your sudden zeal to relieve those ladies of their plates serves as avery good excuse for the relinquishment of your own. You have rescuedyourself very well from your dilemma this time. Remember my advice forthe future. Never accept a peach in company. 

MISERIES. 

No. 2. 

A DARK NIGHT. 

There are some people who seem to have the faculty which horses anddogs are said to possess, --of seeing in the dark. But I, alas! amblind and blundering as a beetle; I never can find my way about housein the evening, without a lamp to illumine my path. Many smartingremembrances have I of bruised nose and black eyes, the consequencesof attempting to run through a partition, under the full convictionthat I have arrived at an open door. My most prominent feature hasbeen rudely assailed, also, by doors standing ajar, unexpectedly, which I have embraced with both outstretched arms. Crickets, tables, chairs (especially chairs with very sharp rockers), and other movablearticles of furniture, have stationed themselves, as it would seem, with malicious intent to trip me up. Some murderous contusion makes mesuddenly conscious of their presence. Then a feeling of completebewilderment and helplessness and timidity comes over me. I have notthe least idea in what part of the room I am. I am oppressed with asense of chairs, scattered about in improbable places. I long mostardently for a lamp, or only for one gleam from a neighbor'swindow. It is no rare thing for me to discover, by a thrilling touchupon the cold glass, that I have been feeling my way exactly in theopposite direction from what I imagined. Strange how ideas ofdirection and distance are lost when the sight is powerless! _Touch_may find out mistakes, but cannot always prevent them. Touch mayconvince me that I have arrived at my bureau, but it is too carelessto perceive (what the poor, straining eyes would have discovered at aglance) the open upper drawer that salutes my forehead as I stoophastily to grasp the handles beneath. Touch is clumsy. It only servesto upset valuable plants, inkstands, solar lamps, &c. , with anappalling crash, and then leaves me standing aghast, in utteruncertainty as to the extent of the catastrophe. In such emergencies arush for the stairs is the first impulse. Ah! but those stairs!

I will pass over the startling plunge which begins my descent, thefrantic snatch for the banisters, and the strange, momentary doubt asto which foot must move first, like what a child may feel whenlearning to walk. All this only serves to render me so over-careful, that, when I actually arrive at the foot of the staircase, I cannotbelieve it, until a loud scuff, and the shock that follows theinterruption of my expected descent, assure me beyond a doubt. Thereis nothing more exasperating than this, unless it may be thecorresponding disappointment in running up stairs, when you raise yourfoot high in air, and bring it down with an emphatic stamp exactlyupon a level with the other. 

But these are mere household experiences. Sad though they are, Iesteem them as nothing in comparison with my adventures out of doors. In a dark night, and especially in a night both dark and stormy, Ifeel myself one of the most wretched beings in existence. Imagine avessel lost in the wide ocean, and without a compass, and you willhave some faint idea of my perplexity, discouragement, and lonelinessat such a time. I have a strange propensity for shooting off into thegutter, or for shouldering the fences, under the impression that I ampursuing a straight course. I go quite out of my way to trip overchance stones, or to pick out choice bits of slippery ice. I splashrecklessly through deep puddles, stumble over unfortunate scrapers, walk unexpectedly into open cellars, and lay my length upon wet stonedoorsteps. I start back at visions of posts looming up in thedarkness, and whitewashed fences and trees, all of which would bequite unlikely to be standing in the middle of the sidewalk, and whichdisappear at the first reasonable thought. I run into harmlesspassengers as if I would knock the breath of life out of them, andtangle our umbrellas together so fearfully that they spin round andround some time after their separation. O that umbrella of mine!Sometimes I hook it in the drooping branches of trees, and, losing myhold in the suddenness of the shock, have the gratification of feelingit tip up, and go down over my shoulder into the mud behind me. Itsbone tips tap and scratch at the windows as I go by, and scrapeagainst the tall fences, like fingers trying to catch at something tohold on by, and stop my progress. It hits a low branch, and itsvarnished handle slips through my woollen gloves, knocking my hat overmy eyes, and extinguishing me for the time being. As if the night werenot dark enough without!

My friends, I could go on much longer with my complaints, but I feelthat I have drawn upon your sympathies sufficiently for thepresent. You will be as glad to leave me at my own house-door, as I amto find it. 

MISERIES. 

No. 3. 

TWINE. 

Under the general head of _string_, I might enumerate a long list ofthis world's miseries. Shoe-strings alone comprehend an amount ofwretchedness, which is but feebly described in the tragical story ofJemmy String. Bonnet-strings and apron-strings, dickey-strings andwatch-guards, curtain-cord, bed-cord, and cod-line, each and all havefurnished enough discomfort to make out a long grumbling article. ButI cannot linger to describe their treacherous desertions when theirservices are most needed, their unexpected weakness, and theirobstinate entanglements when time presses. A certain pudding-bagstring is commemorated in one of the beautiful couplets of MotherGoose's Melodies. I am sure you cannot have forgotten it, nor thestaring spotted cat that is there represented racing away with herbooty. That lamented pudding-bag string is but a type of strings ingeneral. They are fleeting possessions, always hiding, alwaysmisplaced, never in order. You fit up a string-drawer, perhaps, with afine assortment, and pride yourself upon its nice arrangement. Go toit a week after, and see if you can find one ball where you left it!Can you lay your hand upon a single piece that you want? No, indeed!Twine is considered common property. If any one has a use for it, hetakes it without leave or license, without even inquiring who is theowner, and you may be sure he will never bring any of it back again. Othe misery endured for the want of an errant piece of twine, when youare in a nervous hurry to do up a parcel, some one waiting at the doormeanwhile! After an immense deal of pains, you have it at last foldedto your liking, with every corner squared and even, every wrinklesmoothed. Then, clasping tightly with one hand the stiff wrapper, yousearch distractedly with the other for a ball of twine, which youdistinctly remember tossing into the paper-drawer only the day before. In vain you surround yourself with newspaper and brown paper, anduseless rubbish, tumbling your whole drawer into confusion. In vainyou relinquish your nicely packed parcel, and see its contentsscattered in all directions. In vain you grumble and scold. The ballis not forthcoming. Your little brother has seized it to fly his kite, or your sister is even now tying up her trailing morning-glories, orsweet peas, with the stolen booty. You plunge your hand exploringlyinto the drawer, and bring up a long roll wound thickly with twine ofall kinds and colors. Your eyes sparkle at the prize; but, alas! thefirst energetic pull leaves in your hand a piece about four incheslong, and a quantity of dangling ends and rough knots convince youthat you have nothing to hope in that quarter. A second plunge bringsup a handful of odds and ends, strong pieces clumsy and rough, coarsered quill-cord, delicate two-colored bits far too short, cotton twinebreaking at a touch, fine long pieces hopelessly tangled together, sothat not even an end is visible. The more you twitch at the loops, themore desperate is the snarl. Poor mortal! Your pride gives way beforethe urgency of haste. You send off your nice packet miserably tiedtogether by two kinds of twine. 

All the rest of the day you are tormented by a superfluity of the verything you needed so much. It was impossible to get it when you wantedit; but now it is pertinaciously in your way when you do _not_ wantit. You almost break your neck tripping over a long, firm cord, whichproves to be a pair of reins left hanging on a chair by some carelessurchin. The carpet and furniture are strewed with long, stragglingpieces of packthread. You find a white end dangling conspicuously fromyour waistcoat pocket. As you walk the streets you see twine flyingfrom fences, or lying useless on the sidewalk, black with dust andage. To crown the whole, a friend comes with a piece of twineextending across two rooms, and asks you to help him twist and doubleit into a cord. It is a very entertaining process. You amuse yourselfwith watching one little rough place that whirls swiftly round, stopswith a jerk, turns hesitatingly one side and the other, then, yieldingto a new impulse, flies round and round again till you are dizzy. Youlook with great complacency at the tightening twist, now brought_almost_ to perfection. You turn it carelessly in your fingers, scarcely noticing its convulsive starts for freedom. Ah! yourimprudent friend, without any warning, gives it a final pull tostretch it into shape. The twine slips from your grasp, springs awayacross the room, curls itself into a succession of snarls and twistedloops, and then lies motionless. Your friend looks thunderstruck. Witha hasty apology, you step forward and tightly clasp the recreantend. You are in nervous expectation of dropping it again. Your fingersare benumbed at the tips with their tight compression, and theconstant twitching. They give a sudden jerk. You make an involuntaryclutch for the cord, but in vain. It is rapidly untwisting at the veryfeet of your companion, who looks at it in despair. Again you make anattempt with no success at all, the refractory twine eluding yourutmost endeavors to hold it. Once more! Your fellow-twister walks offat last, with a wretchedly rough affair, which he good humoredly says"will do very well. "

MISERIES. 

No. 4. 

I believe the world has gone quite crazy on the subject of freshair. In the next century people will think they must sleep on thehouse-tops, I suppose, or camp out in tents in primitive style. Nothing is talked about but ventilators, and air-tubes, andchimney-draughts. One would suppose that fire-places were inventedexpressly for cooling and airing a room, instead of heating it. Therewas no such fuss when I was young; in those good old times these airynotions had not come into fashion. Where the loose window-sashesrattled at every passing breeze, and the wind chased the smoke downthe wide-mouthed chimney, nobody complained of being stifled. Therewere no furnaces then to spread a summer heat to every corner of thehouse. No, indeed! We ran shivering through the long, windy entries, all wrapped in shawls, and hugging ourselves to retain the friendlywarmth of the fire as long as possible. Far from devising ways ofletting _in_ the air, we tried hard to keep it _out_ by stuffing thecracks with cotton, and closely curtaining the windows and bed. Eventhen, the ice in the wash-basin, and the electricity which made ourhair literally stand on end in the process of combing, and the gradualtransformation of fingers into thumbs, showed but too plainly that thewintry air had penetrated our defences. When we crowded joyfully rounda crackling, sparkling wood-fire, even while our faces glowed with theintense heat, cold shivers were creeping down our backs, and suddendraughts from an opening door set our teeth chattering. I often wishedmyself on a spit, to revolve slowly before the fire until thoroughlyroasted. Not from any want of air, I assure you, we children werealways breaking panes of glass on the bitterest days, and the glazierwas never known to come under a week to replace them. Why peopleshould wish to revive, and live through again, the miseries of such afrost-nipped childhood, I cannot imagine. 

I, for one, love a snug house, even a warm house. I am of a chillytemperament, and subject to rheumatism, horrible colds, &c. Fresh airis my bane. I banish all books on the subject from my table. Istudiously avoid all notorious fresh-air lovers, or try in every wayto bring over the poor, misguided mortals to my views; but it is of nouse. Fresh air is the fashion, and is run to extremes, as all fashionsmust be. I call in a physician; lo! _fresh air_ is recommended as atonic. I give a party; of course my windows are all thrown open, andfoolish young girls, in the thinnest of white muslins, are standing inthe draught; and such a whirlwind is raised by the flirting of fans, and the rush of the dancers, that I am blown, like a dry leaf, into acorner, where I stand shivering, and making rueful attempts to appearsmiling and hospitable. I go out to pass a social afternoon with afriend, and am set down in a room just above the freezing-point, witha little crack opened in the window, and all the doors flying, to_change the air_. I ride in the omnibus, and am almost choked with mybonnet-strings, such a furious draught meets me in the face, and when, with infinite pains, I have secured the only tolerably warm corner, mynext neighbor becomes very faint, and must have the window open. Eventhe poor babies are not safe from this popular insanity. You may seethe little victims any day, taking an airing, with their little rednoses and watery eyes peeping forth from under the cap andfeathers. The old-fashioned blanket, in which the baby was done uphead and all, like a bundle, is thrown aside. The child is not quiteso often carried upside down. I suppose, under the new system, butwhat difference does it make whether the poor thing is smothered orfrozen to death?

I never shall forget a long journey I took once with a friend who wasraving mad on the subject of fresh air and cold water. Every morningthe windows were thrown wide open, and the blinds flung back with anenergetic bang, while a stiff wintry wind whirled every thing aboutthe room, and flapped the curtains against the ceiling. And there shestood, declaring herself exhilarated, while her nose and lips turnedfrom red to blue, and the tears ran down her cheeks. I always took toflight. Afterwards the poor auto-martyr went out to walk beforebreakfast, scornfully rejecting all offers of furs and extrawrappings. O dear, no! _She_ never thought of muffs, tippets, snow-boots, but as encumbrances fit for extreme old age andinfirmity. She always walked fast, and the more the wind blew, thewarmer she felt, I might be assured. As soon as she had gone, Iestablished myself in comfort by the side of a glowing grate, happybut for dreading her return. She came in dreadfully fresh and breezyfrom the outer air, very energetic, very noisy, and fully bent uponstirring me up and making me take exercise. After snapping the dooropen and slamming it behind her with a clap that greatly disturbed mynerves, she exclaimed in a stentorian voice, "O dear me! I shall _die_in such an oven! My dear child, you have no idea how hot it is!" Andthe first thing I knew, up would go a window with a crash that madethe weights rattle. It might rain or shine; weather made no differenceto this inveterate air-seeker. Many a time has she come in alldripping, and tracking the carpet, brushed carelessly against me withher wet garments, and finally enveloped me with the steam arising fromthem as they hung around my fire. It roused my indignation that sheshould make herself and every body else so uncomfortable, and thenglory in the deed as if it were indubitably and indisputablypraiseworthy. She was so good-natured, however, and so happy in herdelusion, that I could not find it in my heart to remonstrate veryvehemently, except when she would make me listen to her interminablelectures upon the importance, the _necessity_, of fresh air, and theeffect of a snug, cosy room upon the blood, the heart, the lungs, thehead, and (as I verily believe she hinted) _the temper_. I know I lostall control of _mine_ long before she finished; but whether it was thewant of fresh air in practice, or too much of it in theory, I leaveyou to imagine. 

My friend always carried a small thermometer in her trunk, which sheconsulted a dozen times an hour, in order to regulate the temperatureof the room. Alas for me if the quicksilver rose above 60! I devoutlyhoped she would leave it behind in some of our numerousstopping-places, and with an eye to that possibility, I must confess, I hung it in the most out-of-the-way corners I could find; but itseemed to be on her mind continually. She never forgot it, and alwayspacked it very carefully, too. I asked her two or three times to letme put it in _my_ trunk, where I had slyly arranged a nice littleplace full of hard surfaces and sharp corners, but she always hadplenty of room. 

I believe my zealous friend is now residing at the sea-shore, freezingin the cold sea-winds, and losing her breath every morning in thebriny wave, under the strange illusion that she is improving herhealth. 

FAREWELL. 

 They tell me my hat is old! I scarce believe it so; But since I'm uncivilly told The dear old thing must go, I bid thee farewell, old hat, Good hat! Farewell to thee, good old hat!

 I must soon to the city his, And trudge to some horrid store, A smart new tile to buy, With a heart exceedingly sore, For I cast off a long-tried friend, A close friend, -- I'm ashamed of a trusty old friend. 

 Ah, let me remember with tears The day thou wast first my own, When I settled thee over my ears, Then with soap-locks overgrown. "Hurra for a beaver hat, A sleek hat! A cheer for a sleek beaver hat!"

 That day is in memory green Among those that were all of that hue; Sweet days of my youth! Ah! I've seen But too many since that were _blue_. How smooth was our front, my hat, My first hat! Unbent were our brows, my first hat!

 The first dent, --what a sorrow it was! Were it only my skull instead! Indignant I think on the cause, And pommel my stupid head. I was new to the care of a hat, A tall hat, -- Unworthy to wear a tall hat. 

 The omnibus portal, low-browed, Had ne'er grazed my humble cap, But it knocked off my beaver so proud, Which into a puddle fell slap. Alas for my dignified hat, My proud hat! Woe to my lofty-crowned hat!

 It survived, but it had a weak side, And so had its wearer, perchance, Since I left it on stairs to abide, At a house where I went to a dance. A lady ran into my hat, My poor hat! She demolished my invalid hat!

INNOCENT SURPRISES. 

I am somewhat inclined to the opinion, that, if positive legislationcould be brought to bear upon this subject, making it a criminaloffence for one person deliberately to concoct and designedly tospring a surprise upon another, society would derive incalculablebenefit from the act. For the ordinary and inevitable surprises ofevery-day life are sufficiently frequent and startling to content eventhe most romantic disposition; entirely dispensing with the necessityof those artfully contrived, embarrassing little plots which one'sfriends occasionally set in motion, greatly to their own diversion andthe extreme discomfort of the surprised unfortunate. For he who hasever broken his skull on a treacherous sidewalk, or received from thepost a dunning missive when he expected a love-letter, or arrived oneminute late at the car-station, or taken a desperately bad bill inexchange for good silver, or been caught in a thunderstorm with whitepantaloons and no umbrella, knows that the unavoidable surprises oflife are in themselves staggerers of quite frequent occurrence, andrequire not the aid of human invention. But the surprises which wemost dread are not those which _naturally_ fall to us as part of themisfortune we are born to inherit; not those which result fromunforeseen accidental circumstances, from carelessness on our own partor from the folly of others, from revolutions in the elements or inthe affairs of nations; these we _can_ bear, by using against them thebest remedies we possess, or by viewing and enduring them as wisdomand philosophy teach us to do. No; our only prayer, in thisconnection, is that we may be saved from our friends; not from theircarelessness, but from their deliberate schemes against our security. 

In order to reconcile this apparent contradiction in terms, take thefollowing instance of a friendly propensity. You walk into your houseat dusky twilight, at that particular hour of evening at which your_own brother_, if he be a reasonable being, would not expect you torecognize him; one of your family extends his (or her) head from theparlor, and calls upon you at once to enter, and greet "an oldfriend. " You obey, and are immediately confronted with an individualwhose countenance wears an expression associated with somereminiscences of your youth, but so dim and undefined is it, that youcannot, for the life of you, give it its appropriate name orplace. What is to be done? The recollections of early childhood areexpected spontaneously to burst forth from under a heap of later andmore vivid associations, and the name, residence, business, and wholehistory of the unwelcome guest are called upon to suggest themselveswithin a second's time. 

After a long moment of painful hesitation, during which you have invain tried to _stare_ his name out of him, you clutch at a strugglingidea, and blurt out the name of one of your former associates. You dothis, not by any means because common sense or conviction suggest thecourse, but simply because something must instantly be done. Theresult, of course, is, that you hit upon the wrong name; and now yourkind friends can do no more for you; even if they rush to the rescue, and formally introduce the stranger, it is of no avail. The deed isdone; you are placed in a position of awkward mortification, whichboth the stranger and yourself will never forget, and never cease toregret. 

Why it is that the feeling of shame which follows upon such mishapsattaches itself exclusively to the innocent sufferers, rather than tothose who are the cause of the suffering, I never couldunderstand. This kind of diversion betrays a want of humaneconsideration in the contriver. It is infinitely more cruel andunamiable than Spanish bull-baitings, or the gladiatorial shows of theancients, inasmuch as a shock to the finest feelings of human natureis harder to bear, and longer in duration, than the momentary panginduced by witnessing a merely physical suffering. 

THE OLD SAILOR. 

In my school vacations I used occasionally to visit an old sailorfriend, a man of uncommon natural gifts, and that varied experience oflife which does so much to supply the want of other means ofeducation. He must have been a handsome man in his youth, and thoughtime and hardship had done their utmost to make a ruin of his boldfeatures, and had made it needful to braid his still jetty black lockstogether to cover his bald crown, his was a fine, striking head yet, to my boyish fancy. I loved to sit at his feet, and hear him tell theevents of sixty years of toil and danger, suffering and well-earnedjoy, as he leaned with both hands upon his stout staff, his bodyswaying with the earnestness of his speech. His labors and perils werenow ended, and in his age and infirmity he had found a quiet haven. Hehad built a small house by the side of the home of his childhood, andhis son, who followed his father's vocation, lived under the sameroof. This son and two daughters were all that remained to him of alarge family. 

"An easterly bank and a westerly glim are certain signs of a wetskin!" said the fisherman, pointing to the heavy black masses of cloudthat hung over the eastern horizon, one morning when I had risen atsunrise for a day's fishing. "'T won't do; don't go out to-day!There's soon such a breeze off shore, as, with the heavy chop, wouldmake you sick enough! Besides, the old dory won't put up with such astorm as is coming. No fishing, my boy, to-day. "

His old father said, "Stephen is right. There is a blow brewing. " Andhe came to look, leaning on his cane. "Stay in to-day. "

I yielded, and the sky during the morning slowly assumed a dull, leaden hue. The storm came on in the afternoon, heavily pattering, andpouring, and blowing against the windows, and obscuring the littlelight of an autumn twilight. I wandered through the few small rooms ofthe cottage, endeavoring to amuse myself, while the light lasted, withtwo funeral sermons and an old newspaper. Then I sat down at a window, and I well remember the gloomy landscape, seen through the rain, inthe dusk:--the marsh, with the creek dividing it, the bare roundeminence between the house and the beach, or rather the rocky cliffs, and on either side the wide, lonely sands, with heavy foam-cappedbreakers rolling in upon the shore, with a sound like a solemndirge. At a distance on the left, half hidden by the walnut-trees, laythe ruins of a mill, which had always the air of being haunted. Ahigh, rocky hill, very nearly perpendicular on the side next thehouse, was covered on the sides and top with junipers, pines, andother evergreens. As the darkness thickened, I left the lonely "bestroom" for the seat in the large chimney-corner, in the kitchen. Theold wife tottered round, making preparations for the evening meal, andmuttered recollections of shipwrecks which the storm brought to hermind. Now and then she would go to a window, turn back her cap-borderfrom her forehead, put her face close to the glass, shading off thefirelight with her hand, and gaze out into the darkness. 

"Asa did not go out either, thank the good Father!" she said. The dogwhined piteously. "St! St! Poor Scip! Here, shall have a piece! Gooddog! A fearful night indeed it is. "

The two men came in from the barn, shook off the wet, and drew nearthe fire. 

"Just such a night, twenty-nine years ago come August, we ran afoul ofHatteras. You remember, old woman, how they frighted ye about me, don't ye?"

Amidst such reminiscences we were called to supper. I remember beingsolemnly impressed when that old man, bent with hardship and theweight of years, clasped his hands reverently, and in rude terms, butfull of meaning, asked a blessing upon their humble board. I rememberthe flickering light from the logs burning on the hearth, and how itshowed, upon the faces of those who sat there, a strong feeling of thewords in which rose an added petition in behalf of those on the mightydeep. 

Supper being ended, the old man took down the tobacco-board, and, whenhe had cut enough to fill his pipe, handed it to his son, who, havingdone the same, restored it to its nail in the chimney-corner. Thenthey smoked, and talked of dangers braved and overcome, of pirates, and shipwrecks, and escapes, till I involuntarily drew closer into mycorner, and looked over my shoulder. Suddenly the dog under the tablegave a whining growl. 

"I never seed the like o' that dog, " exclaimed the fisherman, turningto me. "I thought he was asleep. But if ever a foot comes nigh thehouse at night, he gives notice. Depend on it, there's some onecoming. "

The door of the little entry opened, with a rush of the whistlingwind, and a man stepped in. The dog half rose, and though he waggedhis tail, in token that he knew the step to be that of a friend, hekept up a low whine. A young man, muffled to the eyes, and with thewater dripping from his huge pea-jacket, opened the kitchen-door. 

"William Crosby, why, what brings you out in such a storm as this?Strip off your coat, and draw up to the fire, can't ye? Where are youbound, then, and the night as dark as a wolf's throat?"

The young fisherman made no answer, unless by a motion of his hand. Ashe turned back the collar from his face, we saw by the waving lightthat it was pale as death. The long wet locks already lay upon hischeeks, making them more ghastly as he struggled to speak. "O StephenLee, it's no time to be sitting by the fire, when old Asa Osborn isrolling in the waters. A man's drownded; and who's to get the body forthe wife and the children--God pity them!--afore the ebb carries itout to sea?"

The old man drew his hand across his forehead, and rose. I looked athim as he drew up his tall figure, and looked the young messenger fullin the eye. In a low, deep whisper, he said, "Who, William, did yesay? You said a man's drownded, --but tell me the name again. "

"Yes, Gran'sir, I did say it. Old Uncle Ase Flemming, he and theminister went out a fishing in the morning. The minister got his bootsoff in the water, and after a long time he's swum ashore. But poorUncle Ase--. Stephen, come along. His poor wife's gone down to thebeach, now. "

They left the house, and I shut the door after them, and came backsoftly to my seat by the old man's knee. 

Once before I had seen him, when a heavy sorrow fell upon him. It wason a beautiful summer's day, and the open window let in the coolbreeze from the sea. He was sitting by it in his arm-chair, lookingout upon the calm water, buried in thought. His favorite daughter hadlong been very low, and might sink away at any moment. The old dog wasat his feet asleep. The clock ticked in the corner, and the sun wasshining upon the floor. Some friends sat by in silence, with sorrowfulcountenances. His little grandchild came to his side, and said, "Mother says, tell Grandpa Aunt Lucy's gone home. "

The old man did not alter his position. For some time he sat in deepthought, looking out with unseeing gaze, and winding his thumbs, asbefore. Of five fair daughters, three had before died by the samedisease, consumption. He had seen them slowly fade away, one by one, and had followed his children to the grave in the secludedburying-ground, where the green sod was now to be broken to receivethe fourth. 

Rising slowly, he walked across the room, and, taking the well-wornfamily Bible, returned with it to his seat; and, as he turned theleaves, he said in a low tone to himself, "There's only one left now!"Then he sat entirely silent, with his eyes fixed upon the sacredpage. He did not utter one word of lamentation, he did not shed atear, but as he turned his eye on me, in passing, its expression wentto my heart. Stealing softly out, I left him to the silent Comforterwhose blessing is on the mourner. 

Now the scene was changed. One was suddenly taken from his side whohad been a companion from boyhood to old age. They had played andworked in company; together they had embarked on their first voyage, and their last; and they had settled down in close neighborhood in theevening of their days. Each had preserved the other's life in somemoment of peril, but took small praise to himself for so simple an actof duty. Few words of fondness had ever passed between them. They hadgone along the path of life, without perhaps being conscious of anypeculiarly strong tie of friendship binding them together, till theywere thus torn asunder. The death of a daughter, long and slowlywasting away before his eyes, could be calmly borne. But this blow waswholly unforeseen, and his chest heavily rose and fell, and by thebright firelight I saw tears rolling over his weather-beaten cheeks. 

 "A child will weep a bramble's smart, A maid to see her sparrow part, A stripling for a woman's heart; Talk not of grief, till thou hast seen The hard-drawn tears of bearded men. "

The fury of the storm being abated, I resolved to follow Stephen downto the shore. He was not in sight, and I knew not what direction totake. It was a gloomy night, the transient glimpses of the moonbetween driving masses of clouds only making the scene more wild andappalling. I could see the tops of the tall trees bending under thefury of the blast, ere it came to sweep the beach. The heaving billowswere covered with foam, far as the eye could reach, and, rising andtumbling, seemed striving with each other as they rolled on towardsthe sands. I had seen storms upon the ocean before, but never had itpresented so awful and majestic an appearance. As the breakers struckupon the shore, and sent a huge mass of water upon the sands, theirsullen roar mingled with the howling and rushing of the wind, andfilled me with awe. 

There were torches upon the beach, and as I drew near, I saw thefishermen run together to one point. The body had just been washedashore, and lay stretched upon the sands. The head was bare, and longlocks of white hair streamed down upon the shoulders. The heavypea-jacket was off from one arm, as if he had endeavored to extricatehimself from it in the water. The sinewy arms lay powerless and freefrom tension then, but they told me that, when they first drew himfrom the surf, both hands were grasping a broken oar with suchstrength that they were unable to loose his hold, till suddenly themuscles relaxed, and the arms fell upon the ground. They turned thebody, and a little water ran from the mouth. Then, gently raising itupon their shoulders, they bore it home. 

LAUGHTER. 

In some individuals the risibles lie so near the surface that you maytickle them with a feather. In others, they are so deeply imbedded inphlegm, or so protected by the crust of ill-humor, that a strongthrust and a keen weapon are required to reach them. 

A laugh is in itself a different thing in different individuals. Somepersons laugh inwardly, unsocially, bitterly. It is a pure grimace onyour part when you join in their merriment, unless you are superior tothe fear of ridicule. On the other hand, there is a laugh of socontagious a nature, that you are irresistibly moved to sympathy whileignorant of the exciting cause, or out of the sphere of itsinfluence. You will laugh loud and long, and afterwards confess thatyou had not the least gleam of a funny idea, all the while. 

You doubt the power of the sympathetic laugh? Come with me into thenursery. Here is a rosy little horror, a year and a half old. Sit downand take him upon your knees. Hold his dimpled hands in yours, andlook steadily into his roguish eyes. Repeat a nursery rhyme, no matterwhat, in a humdrum recitative; he is sober, and very attentive. Suddenly spring a mine upon him with a "Boo!" His "Hicketty-hick!"follows, and his eyes begin to shine. Repeat the experiment. "Hicketty-hick!" again, more heartily than at first, with the babyencore, "Adin!" The same process awakens the rapturous little pearlsagain and again, and you are quite in the spirit of the thingyourself. Now for a more ecstatic burst. You purposely prolong hissuspense; he is all atilt, expecting the delightful surprise. Youdrawl out each word; you drone the ditty over and over again, tillevery tiny nerve is tense with expectation. "Boo!" at last, and overhe goes, in the complete _abandon_ of baby glee; his cherry lips arewide asunder, his head hangs powerless back, and the "Hicketty-hicks"burst tumultuously from his little, beating throat. And _you_, sir;what are _you_ doing? Laughing, I declare, in full roar, till thetears run down your cheeks. You catch the boy in your arms, toss him, almost throttle him with kisses, and so enhance the merry spasms, thatmamma, who has a philosophical instinct with regard to excited nerves, and dreads the reaction, comes to the rescue. 

Let me introduce you to another effective laughter. You shall not heara sound, yet you cannot choose but laugh, if she does, quiet as she isabout it. See how her shoulders shake, --and look at her face! Everyfeature is instinct with mirth; the color mounts to the roots of thehair; the curls vibrate; the eyes sparkle through tears; the whiteteeth glisten; the very nose and ears seem to take a part; likeNourmahal, she "laughs all over, " and while you wonder what the jokemay be, you are laughing too. 

Do you feel dismal, or anxious? You should hear L. Tell a story. Sheis one of the very few who can undertake with impunity to talk andlaugh at the same time. Look and listen, while she describes somecomic occurrence. There is no unladylike, boisterous noise, butmusical peals of laughter come thick and fast; and faster and thicker, preternaturally fast and thick, come the words with them. And yet eachword is distinct; you do not lose a syllable. And I should like to seethe man who can resist her, if she chooses he should laugh, even athis own expense. 

There is an odd sort of power, too, in the gravity with which B. Tells a humorous anecdote. He invariably maintains a sober face whileevery body is in an agony of laughter around him. Just as it begins tosubside, the echo of his own wit comes back to him, and, as if he hadjust caught the idea, he bursts into one little abrupt explosion, sogenuine, so full of heartiness, that it sets every body off upon afresh score. 

Nothing so melts away reserve among strangers, nothing so quicklydevelops the affinities in chance society, as laughter. A person mightbe ever so polite, and even kind, and talk sentiment a whole day, andit would not draw me so near to him as the mutual enjoyment of oneheartfelt laugh. It is a perfect bond of union; for the time being, you have but one soul between you. 

TO STEPHEN. 

 I saw thee only once, dear boy, and it may be, perchance, That ne'er again on earth my eyes shall meet thy gentle glance; Years have gone by since then, and thou no longer art the child, With earnest eye, and frolic laugh, and look so clear and mild; For thee, the smiles and tears and sports of infancy are gone, And youth's bright promise, gliding into manhood, has come on;-- And yet thine image, as a child, will ever stay with me, As bright as when, so long ago, I met and welcomed thee. 

 What was the charm that lay enshrined within thy smiling eyes? What made me all thy childish, winning ways so dearly prize? It was thy likeness to another, --one whose looks of love, No longer blessing earth, were met by angel eyes above. Yet thou hadst not the golden hair, the brow of radiant white, Nor the blue eyes so soft and deep, like violets dewy bright; But the smiles that played about thy mouth, the sweetness in thine eyes, The dimpling cheek that said, "Within, a sunny spirit lies, " The true and open brow, the bird-like voice, so free and clear, The glance that told, "I have not learned the meaning yet of fear, " And more than all, the trusting heart, so lavish of its treasure, In simple faith, its earnest love bestowing without measure; These, more than lines and colors, made a picture, warm and bright, Of one whose face no more might cheer and bless my earthly sight. 

 The nature, beautiful and pure, he carried to the skies, Has been trained by angel teaching, has been watched by seraph eyes. Dear boy! through this cold world _thy_ earth-bound feet have trod; and now, Is the loving heart still thine? Hast kept that true and open brow?

THE OLD CHURCH. 

There are certain old-fashioned people who find fault with theluxuriousness of our churches, and ascribe to the warmth and comfort, which contrast so strongly with the hardships of early times, theacknowledged sleepiness of modern congregations. For my part, I see nonecessary connection between discomfort and devotion. _My_ soul, atleast, sympathizes so much with its physical adjunct, that, when thelatter is uncomfortable, the former is never quite free and active. 

Let me call to remembrance the church my childhood knew, with itscapacious square pews, in which half the audience turned their backsupon the minister; the seats made to rise and fall, for theconvenience of standing, and which closed every prayer with a clap ofthunder; its many aisles, like streets and lanes; the old men's seats, and the queer but venerable figures that were seen in them, --some withblack-silk caps to protect their bald heads from the freezing draughtsof air from the porchless doors; the old women's seats, on theopposite side; the elevated row of pews round the sides of the church, and the envied position of certain little children who had anextensive prospect through the open pew-top within doors, and a viewof the hay-scales and the town-pump through the window besides. Thosewindows, in a double row, with the gallery between, --how regularly Icounted the small panes, always forgetting the number, to make thesame weary task necessary every Sunday! The singing-seats, projectingfrom the central portion of the gallery, furnished me with anotherhebdomadal study, in large gilt letters of antique awkwardness, whichso impressed themselves on my mind that I see them now. This was thegolden legend: "BUILT, 1770. ENLARGED, 1795. " I remember hearing a wagpropose to add as another remarkable fact, "SCOURED, 1818. "

Opposite to the singing-seats towered the pulpit, from which theclergyman looked down upon us like a sparrow upon the house-top. Heseemed in perpetual danger of being extinguished by a hugesounding-board. Very earnestly I used to gaze at the slender point bywhich it hung suspended, and wished, if it _must_ come down, that Imight make the gilt ornament at the apex, resembling a vase turnedupside down, my prize. Under the pulpit was a closet, which some oneveraciously assured me was the place where the tithingman imprisonedincautiously playful urchins. The terrors of that dark, mysteriouscell had little effect on my conduct, however, as I was not entirelyconvinced of the existence of any such lynx-eyed functionary. 

The largest church in the county, it was, however, well filled, manyof the congregation coming five and some even six miles, and remainingthere through the noon intermission, which, on their account, was madeas short as possible. But in winter the vast airy space had a peculiarand searching chill. No barn could be colder, except that the numerousfootstoves made some little change in the air during service. Theminister stood upon a heated slab of soap-stone. I used to watch thisin its progress up the broad aisle and the pulpit stairs, under thearm of the boy from the parsonage, and the irreverent way in which hemade his descent, in view of the assembly, after depositing hisburden, was thus rebuked by an old lady who was always droll andquaint. "Why, Matthew, when you come down the pulpit stairs of aSunday, you throw up your heels like a horse coming out of astable-door. "

Older grew the church, and colder; and if people then staid at home onSunday afternoons, they had a better excuse for doing so than theirsuccessors can muster. The chorister, even, was frequently among themissing, but was charitably supposed to be subject to the ague. Efforts were made to prevail upon the elderly part of the parish topermit the introduction of stoves with long funnels. They scorned theenervating luxury! Their fathers had worshipped in the cold, and theirsons might. But ah! how degenerate were the descendants of the nobleold Puritan church-goers! The services curtailed to half their properlength, yet finding the patience of the listeners all too short! Thedegenerate descendants carried the day, however, the most bigoted oftheir opposers becoming disabled by rheumatism. The old sexton, resignation to inevitable evils being a lesson he had had muchopportunity to learn, submitted with a good grace, though very much ofopinion that fires in a church were an absurdity and a waste. Thestoves were provided, and an uncommonly full attendance the nextSabbath showed the very general interest the matter had excited. Howwould it seem? Would any one faint?

There was by no means a superabundance of heat; there was somethingwrong, but the lack of warmth was a hundred-fold made up in smoke. Noone could see across the church, and the minister loomed up, as if ina dense fog; all eyes were fountains of tears. At last the old sextonwent with a slow and subdued step up to the pulpit, and, wiping hiseyes, respectfully inquired, in a whisper, whether there was not a_little_ too much smoke. This suggestion being very smilingly assentedto, he proceeded to extinguish the fires, and for that day theservices were not indebted to artificial warmth to promote theireffect. 

How sad are improvements in places to which our childish recollectionscling! The gushing fulness of unchilled love is lavished even oninanimate and senseless things, in a happy childhood. How was my heartgrieved when the old-fashioned meeting-house was converted into themodern temple! Time and decay had rendered the tall spire unsafe, yetits fall by force and premeditated purpose seemed a sacrilege. I feltaffronted for the huge weathercock, reclining sulkily against a fence, no more to point his beak to the east with obstinate preference. Imourned over the broad, old-fashioned dial, on which young eyes coulddiscern the time a mile off. The old sexton lived to see this change, and at the end of half a century of care under that venerable roof hewent to his rest. The beloved minister, and many, many who sat withtrustful and devoted hearts under his teachings, are gone to theirreward. A board from the old pulpit, a piece of the red-damaskcurtain, and the long wished-for gold vase, are now in my possession. 

"SOMETHING THAN BEAUTY DEARER. "

 You ask me if her eyes are fair, And touched with heaven's own blue, And if I can her cheek compare To the blush-rose's hue?

 Her clear eye sheds a constant gleam Of truth and purest love, And wit and reason from it beam, Like the light of the stars above. Good-humor, mirth, and fancy throng The dimples of her cheek, And to condemn the oppressor's wrong Her indignant blush doth speak. 

 You ask me if her form is light And graceful as the fawn; You ask me if her tresses bright Are like the golden dawn?

 Her step is light on an errand of love, Scarce doth she touch the earth, And in graceful kindness doth she move Around her father's hearth; And when to bless his child he bends, His comfort and delight, The silver with her dark hair blends, Like a crown of holy light. 

A TALE

FOUND IN THE REPOSITORIES OF THE ABBOTS OF THE MIDDLE AGES. 

Swept from his saddle by a low branch, Count Robert lay stunned uponthe ground. The hunting-party swept on, the riderless steed gallopingwildly among them. No man turned back; not one loved the Count betterthan his sport. 

There came to the spot a man in a woodman's garb, yet of a knightlyand noble aspect. He bent over the fallen man, and bathed his temples, turning back the heavy, clustering locks. The Count, opening his eyes, gazed on him at first without surprise; he thought himself at home, however he came there, so familiar was the face. 

Then did the woodman embrace him with tears, crying, "My brother, O mybrother! it is I! it is Richard!"

"Thou in England!" cried the Count. "Art thou mad?" And he frownedgloomily. 

"Fear not for me, " replied the exile, tenderly raising the Count fromthe ground. 

A narrow path wound through the wood to a ruined hermitage. The outlawhere prepared a bed of leaves for the Count, laid him softly thereon, and went to seek some refreshment. His loved brother might revive, andyet smile kindly on the playmate of his youth, though under a ban. 

When Richard returned, there followed him like a dog a horse of theNorth-country breed, shaggy, and in size not much greater than astag-hound. Robert viewed him with surprise, and it seemed withderision. 

"Despise not him who is able to bear thee out of the wood, " saidRichard. "Thou art faint; here is wine, and of no mean vintage. "

Robert drank from the earthen bottle, and his eye grew brighter, yetlooked it not the more lovingly on Richard. He ate right gladly of thestore of the landless and penniless, --dried venison and oatenbread, --and was refreshed, yet thanked him not. Richard gave fragmentsto the neighing steed. He ate no morsel himself, nor tasted thewine. His heart was full to bursting. 

"Tell me of home, --of--of our father, " he said, at last, with deep, strong sobs. 

"On the morrow, on the morrow, " said Robert, disposing himself forsleep. "Thou wilt hear soon enough. "

But Richard seized him wildly by the shoulder, and bade him tell theworst. 

"Nay, then, if thou _wilt_ know, he is dead. I, thy younger brother, am now thy superior. "

"For that I care not. As well thou, as I, to sit in my father'sseat. But oh! left he no blessing for me? Did he not at the lastbelieve me the victim of calumny?--Alas! No word? Not one dyingthought of Richard?"

"He died suddenly. "

Richard wept long and bitterly, and when, with faltering tongue, heasked tidings of his betrothed, his face was covered; he saw not theguilty flush upon his brother's brow, for that he had spread a lyingreport of the exile's death. 

"Would Bertha still brave the king's displeasure? Was she yet true tothe unfortunate?"

"Bertha is a very woman. She hath forgotten the absent lover, andchosen another, and a better man. "

"Who, who hath supplanted me?" cried Richard fiercely, and springingupon his feet. 

"I tell thee not, lest thou wreak on him thy spite against thyfaithless fair. "

"Know that Bertha's choice, though a traitor, is safe from me, evenwere I, as I was, a man to meet a knight on equal terms. "

His generous heart could not dream of fraternal treachery. And whenhis rival saw this, and that he suspected him not as yet, he smiled tohimself, turned his face to the wall, and closed his eyes, if so be hemight cut off further question. Soon, falling into slumber, heclenched his hands, and ground his teeth. The sleep of a traitor isever haunted by uneasy dreams, and dark shadows of coming doom fellupon his spirit. 

Richard watched till dawn. Sometimes he started up to walk to and fro, beating his bosom, and wringing his hands in agony. Anon he threwhimself prostrate in the stupor of despair. At the first carol ofbirds in the forest, sleep surprised his weary senses, and the peaceof the innocent settled upon his features. 

Side by side lay the brothers, alike in form, alike even infeature. But in heart they bore no mark of the resemblance of kindred. Envy of the elder-born early possessed the soul of Robert, like a basefiend; first had it driven thence love, and lastly honor. 

Does no one seek for the absent lord of the castle, while the wearyhunters return to be his guests? Keeps no one anxious vigil, thelive-long night? The unloving is not loved. But he hath a king beneathhis roof; a king and lords of high degree sit at the morning board, and shall none but vassals be hospitably proud and busy?

Ladies of rank were there, and among them, pale and silent, satBertha, looking on the king, it seemed, with an upbraiding eye. Anangry gloom sat upon his grimly compressed lips, and sadness was uponhis brow; for kingly power was naught, since remorse could not undo awrong done to one who no longer lived, and vengeance could not reachits absent object. Richard's innocence had come to light, and Robert, albeit he knew it not, was now the dishonored outlaw. 

Ere the clock of the distant minster rung the hour of ten, the royalcavalcade wound from the gates of the castle. At the same hour CountRobert awoke, and saw that the sun was already very high. It shoneupon the calm face of Richard, tempered with quivering shadows fromthe leafy canopy above. 

"Up, brother Richard!" cried the Count; "thou wast ever a sluggard. "And Richard, at his bidding, filled his hunting-pouch with provisionsfor the way, and went before, leading the little Northern nag, whichthe Count bestrode. He bore himself bravely under the weight of arider whose feet nearly grazed the turf on each side. 

Slowly they wound through the tangled wood. "Stay, I will lighten thyburden for thee, " said Robert, "if thou hast not left the bottlebehind. Here's to the fair Bertha. What, thou wilt not drink? Thenthou hast resigned her;--she is not worth a thought. Thou wilt notperil thy life to see her again, the false one who careth not forthee. Now depart, and when the king's wrath is overpast, I willbeseech him for thee. Leave thy cause in a brother's hands. " ButRichard went not back, though, when they came to the edge of the wood, they beheld the king's train advancing in the broad highway. 

"Fly, Richard; escape while thou mayest!" cried Robert, yet offeredhe not the horse for the greater speed. "Found on English ground, thou diest a felon's death. Disgrace not thy family. Carest thou notfor life?" he cried, pursuing Richard, who stinted not, nor stayed, atthe sight of the king, but the rather hasted forward. 

"What is life to me?" said Richard. "Let the king do with me as hewill. " He strode onward proudly, with folded arms, offering himself tothe view of Edward, who as yet saw him not, or only as a forester. 

"Halt at least that I may spur on and implore for thee, " said Robert, for he hoped that he might deliver him a prisoner to some one inattendance, that he should not come to speech of the king. 

With this wily purpose, he galloped forward. A shout arose, "Thetraitor! The traitor!" He was made prisoner by no gentle hands, and, at a nod from the king, found himself led away to the rear, but notfar removed. 

He looked about for Richard. Could he not yet wave him back? Shouldthe king see that noble face, he must be moved to mercy, at least sofar as to give him audience. The brothers know not yet that all isreversed. Robert sees a man in russet clothing kneel at the king'sstirrup; he sees the royal hand extended to raise him; he sees manypress forward eager to welcome the wanderer. He turns away, sick atthe sight. 

One look more. Bertha has thrown herself into the arms of his hatedbrother. He tears his beard; he curses his own natal day, and thestars that presided over his birth and destiny. 

Yet must he look once more, though to an envious soul the sight of abrother's happiness is like the torment of purgatorial fire. Richardis standing with his hand extended towards him. He is pleading thecause of the mean and cowardly enemy who betrayed him. He pities andforgives him; he even loves him still, for is he not his brother? Asthe eyes of the king and of all the surrounding crowd are turned onhim, burning shame subdues the warring passions that fill the heart ofRobert, and a faint emotion of gratitude brings a tear to fall uponhis hot cheek. Something of old, childish love awakes in his bosom, like dew in a dry land. 

The king granted Richard's prayer, the more readily because his angerwas smothered by contempt. The title and inheritance returned to theheir, who was worthy his ancient name. Robert, to the day of hisdeath, lived on his brother's bounty, harmless, the rather that theking's decree had gone forth that in no case should he be Richard'ssuccessor, or inherit aught from him. 

 * * * * *

NOTE. --Here ends the tale, but by patient research we have discoveredone verse of an ancient ballad, supposed to have the same traditionfor its subject. It is preserved in a curious collection offragmentary poetry, to be found in most private libraries, and, in itsmore ancient and valuable editions, in the repositories ofantiquaries. It stands, in the modern copy which we possess, asfollows:--

 Richard and Robert were two pretty men; Both laid abed till the clock struck ten. Up jumps Robert, and looks at the sky; "Oho, brother Richard, the sun's very high! You go before, with the bottle and bag, And I'll come behind, on little Jack nag. "

THE SEA. 

 "We sent him to school, we set him to learn a trade, we sent him far back into the country; but it was of no use, he must go to sea. "--THE GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 

 A child was ever haunted by a thought of mystery, Of the dark, shoreless, desolate, heaving and moaning sea, Which round about the cold, still earth goes drifting to and fro, As a mother, holding her dead child, swayeth herself with woe. In all the jar and bustle and hurrying of trade, Through the hoarse, distracting din by rattling pavements made, There sounded ever in his ear a low and solemn moan, And his soul grew sick with listening to that deep undertone. He wandered from the busy streets, he wandered far away, To where the dim old forest stands, and in its shadows lay, And listened to the song it sang; but its murmurs seemed to be The whispered echo of the sad, sweet warbling of the sea. His soul grew sick with longing, and shadowy and dim Seemed all the beauty of the land, and all its joys, to him, -- Its mountains vast, its forests old. He only longed to be Away upon the measureless, unfathomed, restless sea. Thither he went. The foam-capped waves yet beat upon the strand, With a low and solemn murmuring that none may understand; And he lieth drifting to and fro, amid the ocean's roar, With the drifting tide he loved to hear, but shall hear never more. 

 And thus we all are haunted, --there soundeth in our ear, A low and restless moaning, that we struggle not to hear. Yet still it soundeth, the faint cry of the dark deeps of the soul, -- Dark, barren, restless, as the sea which doth for ever roll Hither and thither, bearing still some half-shaped form of good, The flickering shadow of the moon upon the "moon-led flood. " And ever, 'mid all the joys and weary cares of life, Through the dull sleep of sluggishness, and clangor of the strife, We hear the low, deep murmuring of that Infinity Which stretcheth round us dim and vast, as wraps the earth the sea. And in the twilight dimness, in silence and alone, The soul is almost startled by the power of its solemn tone. When we view the fairest works of Nature and of Art, They ever fill with longings, never satisfy, the heart; But, like the lines of weed and shells that stretch along the beach, And show how far the flowing tide and the high waters reach, They seem like barriers to hold back, like weedy lines, to show How far into this busy world the waves of beauty flow. Yet when sweet strains of music rise about us, float, and play, We almost dream these barriers of sense are broken away, And that the beauty bound before is floating round us, free As the bright, glancing waters of the ever-playing sea. And for a little moment, the spirit seems to stand With naked, wave-washed feet almost upon the strand. But when she stoops to reach the wave, the waters glide away, And whisper in an unknown tongue, --she hears not what they say. 

FASHION. 

Why is it that the introduction of a really graceful fashion isgenerally met with ridicule and opposition, while ugly modes areadopted with grave acquiescence and reverent submission?

"Seest thou not what a deformed thief this _Fashion_ is?" "I know thatDeformed; he goes up and down like a gentleman. " Yes, we all know_Deformed_. When any of his family come to us, from England or Franceor any foreign country, we recognize the hideous brotherhood, andextend our welcoming hands; but _Graceful_ must stay with us a longtime to be greeted kindly, and her sisters from foreign parts arecoldly looked upon, or dismissed at once. 

To begin at the top, --"the very head and front of the offending. " Agentleman goes into a fashionable hatter's, and the shopman, holdingup for admiration a hat with a crown a foot high, of the genuinestove-pipe form, and a brim an inch wide, says, "This is the neweststyle, Sir. " The gentleman walks home with the ugly thing on his head, but no one stares or laughs. 'Tis a new fashion, but all "take iteasy. " A year later, perhaps, the hatter shows him a thing with a brima half an inch wider, but rolled up at the sides, and a crown of amuch greater diameter at the top than where it joins the brim, --aspecimen of the bell-crown. This is solemnly donned, and the wearerhas the pleasure of knowing that the head-gear of all his friends isas hideous as his own. The inverted cone is worn with a sweet, Malvolio smile. And so "Deformed" has ruled the head of man for asmany years as any of us can number, only ringing the changes, from oneyear to another, upon the three degrees of comparison of the word_ugly_. 

But a change takes place; a light, graceful, low-crowned hat, with abrim wide enough for shelter or for shade, begins to appear as afashion;--and how is it received? The clergyman thinks it would bevery unclerical for him to wear it, though it may be as black, and isas modest, as the rest of his apparel. The young doctor timidly triesit on, and in his first walk meets the wealthy hypochondriac, hisfavorite patient, and the one who is trying to introduce him topractice, who seriously advises him, as a friend, not to wear thatnew-fangled thing, --if the poor hat had only been ugly, there wouldhave been nothing bad in its _new-fangled_ quality, --as all hisrespectable patients will leave him if he dresses so like a fool. Theyoung lawyer gets one, because he heard an old lady speak of "thoseimpudent-looking hats, " and he is in hopes that impudence, which heunderstands is all-important in his profession, and which he isconscious of not possessing, may come with the hat. A lady goes outwith her son, who is just old enough to have gained a coat, and islooking for his first hat. The mother has taste and judgment, and theyouth has yet some unperverted affinity with graceful forms left, andso they choose and buy one of these comfortable and elegantchapeaux. Just before they reach home, they meet one of their bestfriends, a person whom the lady regards most kindly, and the young manadmires and respects, and _he_ greets him with, "Why, Tom! have _you_got one of those rowdy hats?" And so the stiff, stove-pipe monstrositykeeps its place, and the only pleasant, sensible, graceful, becominghat that the nineteenth century has known, is called all sorts of badnames, and quiet gentlemen are afraid to wear it. 

Has it not been the fate of the shawl, too, the most simple andelegant wrapper, and comfortable withal, that a man can throw aroundhim, to be scouted and flouted?

Yes, Deformed! Come on next winter with a white surtout in your handthat must fit so tightly that your victims can but just screwthemselves into it, with a stiff, square collar touching the ears, andseven capes, one over the other, "small by degrees and beautifullyless, " and all respectable gentlemen will accept it, and virtuouslyfrown down, as dandies or rowdies, those who will not sacrifice theirshawls to the ugly idol. 

A GROWL. 

I know it is generally considered decidedly boorish to uttercomplaints against the ladies. But I am for the present a bachelor, and in that capacity claim freedom of speech as my peculiar privilege. In virtue of my unhappy position, then, I proceed to utter the firstof a series of savage growls, wishing the ladies to understand me asfully in earnest in this; that when I growl _loud_, I must be supposedto _mean_ what I growl. 

For a month past, single gentlemen of every description have sufferedin common with other fancy stocks, and have remained hopelessly belowpar. Those nice, trim, poetical, and polite young beaux, who, when nogreat undertaking agitates the female mind, are treated with kindness, and sometimes with distinction, by young ladies of discretion, arenow, as it were, ruthlessly thrust and bolted out of the pale offeminine society by an awful demon who reigns supreme, --the Genius ofDress-making. The other evening, I pulled sixteen differentbell-handles, in a gentlemanly manner, without obtaining admissioninto any house for the purpose of making a call; and when I succeededin making an entrance at the seventeenth door by falsely representingmyself as the agent of a dry-goods dealer, with a large box ofpatterns under my arm, I found the ladies in close conference withthree dress-makers, studying a fashion-plate with an assiduity worthyof a better cause. A friend of mine, who has hitherto enjoyed theprivilege of dining every day with six ladies, and has derived fromtheir society great pleasure and profit, informed me yesterday, with atear in each eye, that he had left the house for ever, theconversation being always turned upon topics with which he is utterlyunacquainted, and conducted in a language which is about asintelligible to him as the most abstruse Japanese or the most classicLaw-Latin. 

If we are so fortunate as to obtain, by any stratagem, admission tohall or anteroom, in the mansions of our fair friends, our olfactoriesare regaled with a fragrance which we instinctively associate withtailors' shops, and which, I am informed, does in fact arise from thecontact of woollen substances with hot flat-irons. As we advance, ourears are greeted by the resounding clash of scissors. Entering uponthe field of action, our eyes are dazzled by a thousand fragments ofrich and brilliant hues, and our personal safety endangered by swiftlyflying needles and unsuspected pins. Gossip is at an end, for thethread must be continually bitten off. Dancing is child's play, afolly of the past. The piano is converted into a table, or anironing-board. No games can be suggested but Thread-my-needle, andThimble-rig. No books are at hand but Harper, with the fashion-plateat the end; the newspapers of the day are cut into uncouth shapes; andconversation (when conducted in English) hangs the unsuccessfulBloomer reform upon the gibbet of ridicule. 

Now, if we would prevent utter disunion in society, something like acompromise must be effected, and to the ladies belongs the laboringoar. I use a metaphor which implies that they must do something theyare little accustomed to do; they must make some concession. We havedone all we could do, and I will make one statement which willconvince the world that we bachelors are not obstinate without goodreason. I confess (though it is not without some slight degree ofshame that I own it), that I have, during the last week, consumed thegreater part of every day in ineffectual study, trying to perfectmyself in the terminology of the science of Fashion. I have listenedattentively, and have gathered into a retentive memory sundrytechnicalities; but in vain have I submitted these terms of a strangedialect to the strictest etymological research. In vain have Iconversed upon this subject with the most intelligent dry-goodsdealers. In learning the few idiomatic phrases they employ, I haveexperienced only the satisfaction which young students in Greekliterature feel, when they have, with infinite labor, mastered the_alphabet_ of that rich and copious language. 

But there is hope. Experience tells us, this state of things cannotlast for ever. A few weeks, and our sufferings shall be rewarded, ourforbearance repaid. Then shall gay streamers, pendent from rejuvenatedbonnets, float, as of yore, across our promenades, and on theshoulders of Earth's fairest daughters the variegated mantle be againdisplayed. The streets, now deserted by the fair, will ere longglitter with the brilliant throng, and our sidewalks be swept oncemore by the gracefully flowing silk. Taper fingers shallcondescendingly be extended to us, the smile of beauty beam on us, andwitty speech banish our resentful remembrance of incomprehensiblejargon. 

TO JENNY LIND, ON HEARING HER SING THE ARIA "ON MIGHTY PENS, " FROM "THE CREATION. "

 When Haydn first conceived that air divine, The voice that thrilled his inward ear was thine. The Lark, that even now to heaven's gate springs, And near the sky her earth-born carol sings, Poured on his ear a higher, purer note, And heavenly rapture seemed to swell her throat. To him, from groves of Paradise, the Dove Breathed Eden's innocence and Eden's love; And seraph-taught seemed the enchanting lay The Nightingale poured forth at close of day; For yet nor sin nor sorrow had its birth, To touch, as now, the sweetest sounds of earth. Yes! as upon his inner sense was borne The melody of that primeval morn, And all his soul was music, --O, to him The voice of Nature was an angel's hymn! But was there, _then_, one human voice that brought Unto his outward ear his own rapt thought, In tones, interpreting in worthy guise The varied notes of Eden's melodies?-- O, happier we! for unto us 'tis given To hear, through thee, the strains he caught from heaven. 

December 1, 1851. 

MY HERBARIUM. 

Poor, dry, musty flowers! Who would believe you ever danced in thewind, drank in the evening dews, and spread sweet fragrance on theair? A touch now breaks your brittle leaves. Your odors are like atticherbs, or green tea, or mouldy books. Your forms are bent andflattened into every ugly and distorted shape. Your lovely colors arefaded, --white changed to black, yellow to dirty white, gorgeousscarlet to brick color, purple to muddy brown. Poor things! Who drewyou from your native woods and brooks, to press you flat, and dry yourmoisture up, and paste you down helplessly upon your backs, suchmocking shadows of your former grace and beauty?

Ah! sorrowfully do I confess it! It was I. In my early years Isearched the woods and meadows, scaled rocks, forded bogs, andscrutinized each shady thicket, with murderous intent. I bore mydrooping victims home, and sacrificed them relentlessly toscience. With my own hand I turned the screw that crushed out all thatwas lovely and graceful and delicate about them. How I wearied myselfover that flower-press! How anxiously I watched over the stiff stalksand shrivelled leaves, --all that was left! How perseveringly I changedand dried the papers, jammed my fingers between the heavy boards, andblistered my hands with that obstinate screw! And how cordially Ihated it all! I liked the fun of gathering the flowers, the triumph offinding new specimens, and the excitement of hazardous scrambles; butas for the rest it was drudgery, which I went through only from astern sense of duty. Now, thanks to the busy little fingers thatpassed over these leaves, I have a fund of amusement laid up for me;for every page has its story, and each mutilated flower is the centreof a beautiful picture. Here the ludicrous and the pathetic are soexquisitely blended, that I laugh with a regretful feeling at myheart, and sigh even when smiles are on my face. The first few pagesare light and joyous, full of a child's warm impulses and ready zeal, and enlivened here and there by some roguish caprice. That was thetime when, in my simplicity, I loved dandelions and buttercups, andcould see beauty even in the common white-weed of the fields. Ah!here they are, arranged in whimsical positions, --Clover and Sorrel, Violets and Blue-eyed Grass, Peppergrass and Dock (O, how hardthat was to press!), Mouse-Ear and Yarrow, Shepherd's Purse, Buttercups, and full-blown Dandelion, Succory, and Chickweed, andGill-run-over-the-ground, --with their homeliest names written insprawling characters, all down hill, beneath them. I did not aspire tobotanical names in those days. I thought nothing was unfit for my newHerbarium. Such was my zeal, that I believe I should have filled itentirely in a few days, if I had not been counselled to make ajudicious selection. I had a faculty for bringing home plantsimpossible to press, and insisting upon making the experiment. I sleptfor a week with my bed-post tilted up on a huge book, wherein reposeda water-lily, obstinately refusing to lie flat. All kinds of woodyplants, too, were my delight, though they invariably came out of thepress as they went in, except that the leaves were in every variety ofunnatural position. I never grew weary, either, of gathering statelyand graceful green ferns, and finding them all "cockled up, " as thephrase went, when I got home. I believe I made some experiments on ahorsechestnut blossom once; but as it is not to be found in myHerbarium, I am inclined to think they were unsuccessful. How happychildren are with any new possession! I thought there never was anything quite equal to my new book. All the girls had them, with neatmarbled covers, and white paper within, and each one was determined tomake hers the best of the whole. When pasting day came, there was anintense excitement. We all daubed our little fingers to our heart'scontent, and our faces too, as to that. I remember perfectly thesensation of smiling, after the paste stiffened. We spattered ourdesks, and pasted the wrong side of the flowers, and stuck the leavestogether, and got every thing a little one-sided, and, in short, became so worried and heated and vexed, that we did not hunt for anymore flowers for a long time after the first pasting day. 

In the mean while my ideas had undergone a change. I had become muchmore ambitious. A hew page brings flowers of a higher order, and, beneath them, besides the common name, appears a sounding botanicaltitle; ay, still more, the class and order are written in full. Poorthings! How many of your species must have been pulled to pieces byinexperienced hands, to ascertain the exact number of stamens, andtheir relative positions! I feel, now, a tenderness for the shrinking, delicate wild flowers, that makes me hesitate even to pick them fromtheir shady retreats; but _then_, such was my ardor for investigation, the more I loved them, and the more beautiful they seemed, the moreeagerly I tore them to fragments. Let the ingenious student analyzebits of brass wire, and reduce to its simple elements as muchgunpowder as he pleases, but I raise my voice against this wantondestruction of rare and beautiful flowers. No chemical process canever restore _them_. 

As I glance over this new page, I see a merry troop of little girls, crowding around their kind teacher, trying to restrain theirsuperabundant spirits, and restless activity, till they may give themfree scope in the woods. Passing up the street, they are joined byfresh recruits, who come dancing out of the houses, with baskets, andtrowels, and tin boxes, and delightfully mysterious suppers packedaway nicely, to be eaten in the most romantic place that can befound, --provided there is no danger of snakes, or ivy. Where they aregoing I should find it impossible to say, until I have consulted thenew leaf just turned over. Here, side by side, are the wild Columbineand the cheerful little Bethlehem Star. They grew, I remember, uponPowder-House Hill, so named from the massive granite building upon itssummit, which we never dared to go near, for fear of an explosion. Thehill was rough, rocky, barren, and in some places quite steep. In theclefts of the rocks, generally far above our reach, the bright redcolumbines stood in groups, drooping their graceful heads. Some of therocks were worn to a perfect polish by the feet of daring sliders. Itwas a dangerous pastime even to the most experienced. A loss ofbalance, a slight deviation from the beaten track, a trip in a hollow, or a momentary entanglement in your dress, --and you are lost! Ideclined joining in the diversion ever after the first attempt, whichwas nothing but a headlong plunge from top to bottom. But though Iheroically stood aloof while the girls were enjoying the sport, andmaking the air ring with their laughter, I was sure, afterwards, tocome upon the slippery places unintentionally, and take a slidewhether I would or not. I had, I remember, a most unfortunatepropensity for climbing and scrambling, choosing the worst paths, anddaring the others to follow my lead on precarious footholds. It wasunfortunate, because I seldom came forth from these trials unscathed. I was always tearing my dresses in clambering over fences, or bumpingmy head in creeping under. Where others cleared brooks with a lightspring, I landed in the middle. I was sure to pick out spongy, oozy, slippery grass to stand upon, in marshy land, or was yet more likelyto slump through over shoes in black mud. Banks always caved inbeneath my feet, unexpectedly. Brambles seemed to enter into aconspiracy to lay violent hands on me, and hidden boughs lay in waitto trip me up. Moss and bark scaled off the trunks of fallen trees, bearing me with it when I was least on my guard, or the trunksthemselves, solid enough to all appearance, crushed to powder beneathmy unwary tread. Even the stone walls deserted me. I made use of oneas a bridge, one day, to reach a golden cowslip that grew temptinglyin a swamp; but a treacherous stone rolled off with me, and a perfectavalanche of huge rocks followed, splashing the muddy water all overme as I sat, helplessly, buoyed up by the tall grass. I regret to say, I forgot the cowslip. 

THE OSTRICH. 

 Of the wild and wayward Ostrich, say, have ye never heard? Of the poor, distracted, lonely, outcast, and wandering bird? Which is not a bird of heaven, nor yet a beast of earth, But ever roveth, homeless, --a creature of strange birth. Wings hath it, but it flies not. And yet within its breast Are strange and sleepless drivings, so that it may not rest; Half-formed, half-conscious impulses, with its half-formed pinions given, Too strong for rest on earth, too weak to bear to heaven;-- And madly it beats its wings, but vainly, against its side, For the light wind rusheth through them, mocking them in its pride. Then, distraught, it hurries onward, the gates of heaven shut, Flying from what it knows not, --seeking it knows not what. While in the parching desert, amid the stones and sand, Its stone-like eggs are lying, here and there, on every hand, It wanders on, unheeding; and, with funereal gloom, Trembles in every breeze each torn, dishevelled plume. And when, with startled terror, it sees its foes around, It strives to rise above them, but clingeth to the ground. Then on it madly rusheth, with idly fluttering wings; The stones in showers behind it convulsively it flings; Onward, and ever onward, --the fleetest horses tire, -- But its strength grows less and less, their tramping ever nigher. The poor distracted thing! it feels its lonely birth; It may not rise to heaven, so it cometh to the earth; To the earth, as to a mother, since to the earth it must, -- Its head in her bosom nestled, its eye veiled with her dust. But she will not receive it. From earth and heaven outcast, The Ostrich dies, as it lived, unfriended to the last. 

 Of the wild and wayward Ostrich, say, have ye never heard? Of the poor, distracted, lonely, outcast, and wandering bird?

 But not alone it wandereth. My spirit stirs in me, With a sort of half-fraternal and drawing sympathy; This lonely, restless spirit, that would rise from the heavy ground To the sky of light and love that stretcheth all around. But, with all its restless longings, it too must earth-bound stay, And, with wings half formed for soaring, here hold its weary way, Hungering for food of heaven, feeding on dust and stone, While about it lie unheeded, as it hasteth on alone, Its deeds of good or evil, a fruitful mystery; But it presseth on, nor recketh what their event may be. And when doubt and fear assail it, it may not rise above To the glorious, peaceful height of fear-outcasting love; But something draws it downward, breathes of its lower birth, Prompts it to seek a refuge in the blindness of the earth. And it hides its head in earthliness; at least it will not see The blow it cannot ward off; and the foe it may not flee. But something softly whispers that these wings shall grow to soar-- Heaven grant!--in the cloudless depths of love for evermore. It whispers that again these blinded eyes shall see; Heaven grant in their yearning gaze the long-sought home may be! It whispers each word and act shall to fruition spring; Heaven grant they may joy to man, and peace to the spirit bring!

 Of the wild and wandering Ostrich, say, have ye never heard? The type of the restless soul of man, the weary, wingless bird. 

COWS. 

I admire cows in their proper places. They are undoubtedly usefulanimals; some may think them handsome and graceful: this is, as yet, an unsettled question. They certainly figure pretty extensively in allsketches of rural scenery, and may, therefore, be considered aspicturesque objects; but I think that on canvas they take tothemselves beauties which they do not possess in actual life. I do notobject to see them at a distance, quietly grazing in a meadow by thebrink of a winding stream, and all that sort of thing, provided thedistance is very great, and a strong fence intervenes. For I wouldhave you know, that I am a delicate young lady of nervous temperamentand keen sensibilities, and have a mortal dread of cows. I am not usedto the customs of country life, which place this animal on a levelwith domestic pets, and when my brother asked me to pat the side ofone of these great, coarse brutes, I screamed at the mere idea. For Ishould be extremely unwilling to provoke one of them, because I havebeen told that, when heated with passion, as these beasts often are, it sometimes happens that the powder-horns on top of their headsexplode, and spread ruin and desolation around. People here bestow avast deal too much consideration on these unpleasant animals, for theyare often seen--that is, those of them that are troubled with weakeyes--walking along the streets with boards over their faces, as aprotection from the rays of the sun. I don't believe that is the realreason of the thing, though my brother assures me that it is. I think, myself, that it is intended as a keen satire upon those young ladieswho wear veils in the streets; but I never will yield my point. I_will_ wear my veil, so long as I have a complexion worth protecting, and so long as there are gentlemen worth cutting. The Brighton BridgeBattery is a delightful promenade on a warm summer's day, it is _so_shady; but it is closed, I may say, every Wednesday and Thursday, toaccommodate these detestable pets of the public. It seems, as mybrother informs me, that the drovers, from humane considerations, arein the habit of driving their cattle over to Brighton, (when theweather is pleasant, ) and back again on the next day, in order thattheir health may be improved by the sea-air which blows up CharlesRiver. Now I think that when the cow takes precedence of the lady, andusurps, to the utter exclusion of the latter, the most delightfulpromenade in Cambridge, it is time the city authorities should look toit; and so I told my brother. He considered for a moment, and thenadvised me not to bear it any longer, but to go upon Brighton Bridge, _in spite_ of the cows, and assert my independence. I followed hisadvice, as I always do, and, on one fine afternoon, took advantage ofthe pleasant weather to indulge in a solitary walk in thatdirection. As I was sauntering along on the wooden sidewalk, gazing atthe noble ships which lay moored by their gaff-topsails to theabutments of the bridge, and viewing the honest sailors as theypromenaded up and down the string-ladders at the command of theircaptains, my fears were aroused by a distant commotion. I hastilyturned and looked over the railing into the street. A whole drove ofinfuriated cows, urged on by two fiendish boys and a savage dog, wasrapidly approaching me from the Cambridge side. What should I do? Iwas too much fatigued to run, and I had never learned to swim. Myplans were hastily formed. Flinging my red silk visite and sky-blueparasolette into the water, lest the gay colors should still moreenrage the wild animals, I jumped over the outside railing towards theriver, and hung by one arm over the angry flood during a moment ofspeechless agony! On they came, with lightning speed, in a whirlwindof dust. A rapid succession of earthquakes--bellowings--groans, --andall was over. I was safe. On inspection of the footmarks, I felt quitesure that some of them must have approached within ten yards of me, and only two railings had intervened between me and their fury. 

An honest tar from one of the men-of-war employed in unloading coal atWillard's Wharf took the captain's gig, and made for my parasol andvisite as they floated away, and returned them with the veryunintelligible remark, that I'd "better not clear the wreck next timeunless it blew more of a breeze. "

THE HOME-BEACON. 

 By Elkton wood, where gurgling flood Impels the foamy mill, Where quarries loom, in solemn gloom, A mansion crowns the hill. 

 A pharos true, light ever new Streams through its friendly pane, To guide and greet benighted feet Which thread the winding lane. 

 Lofty and lone, that light has shone, Alike o'er green or snow, Since first a pair their nest built there, Two hundred years ago. 

 Now, as we walk, with pleasant talk To cheer the dismal way, That light shall tell of marriage-bell, Of moon and merry sleigh. 

 The ancient home to which we come These scenes revealed one night; As the beacon true, so old, yet new, Flung wide its cheery light. 

 Go back threescore long years, or more: Old Time the latch shall lift, And, from his urn, once more return The home of love and thrift. 

 A noble sire, with nerves of wire, Warm heart, and open hand, -- A worthy dame, nor shrewd, nor tame, -- Lead forth the phantom band;

 Three girls, three boys, with fun and noise, Next gather round the hearth; Reenter, then, dear friends, again All full of life and mirth. 

 "My pretty nuns, 't is late! My sons, Bring out the 'Sliding Car. ' For one fair bride, you all must ride The snows both fast and far. "

 First darts away the bridegroom gay, Nor waits the well-aimed jest: To shed and stall they follow, all, To speed their sire's behest. 

 In full array, the spacious sleigh Glides through the pillared gate: Each prancing steed, straining to lead, Draws no unwilling mate. 

 Full moon and bright loops up the night Above the starry sky. Runner and heel, well shod with steel, Cut sharply as they fly. 

 Along they go, o'er sparkling snow, Shrill bells to song oft ringing; By oak and birch, to Gladstone church A bridal party bringing. 

 On time-worn walls the moonbeam falls, And silvers o'er the spire, While diamond-pane and giddy vane Repeat the heavenly fire. 

 From lofty tower to maiden's bower, And wide o'er hill and dell, Of earthly heaven, to mortals given, Sweet chimes the marriage-bell. 

 With open book, and solemn look, All robed in priestly lawn, The Rector stands, --but counts the sands, Right willing to be gone!

 (The evening mail and nut-brown ale, His pipe and rocking-chair, Are waiting long, while the bridal throng Still lingers unaware. )

 An ancient gloom fills all the room, And dims the lamps above, Though wall and aisle in verdure smile, Through wreath and Christmas grove. 

 By branching pines and graceful vines, Slow glides the youthful pair To the altar green, with brow serene, And kneel together there. 

 Soft breathes the vow, responsive now, In calm but earnest tone. The wedding-ring, strange, mystic thing! Fast binds the twain in one. 

 The solemn word no longer heard, With chastened steps and slow, And heart in heart, no more to part, To "Home, sweet Home, " they go. 

 Fresh now, again, o'er snowy main, The winged steeds return: On roughening rock, with shriek and shock, The flashing runners burn. 

 O'er cradling drift, secure though swift, -- Now smooth, now rough, the track, -- The furious sleigh devours the way, As lash and harness crack. 

 Through furs and wool, the air, so cool, Is felt or feared no more; Though gay the steeds with icy beads, And their flanks are frosted o'er. 

 A fitful light, scarce yet in sight, Gleams through the opening wood: Ah! now they come to their hill-side home, In merry, merry mood. 

 Four lovely girls, a string of pearls, Are found in place of three: Four daughters fair are gathered there Around the Christmas-tree. 

 As roars the fire, their loving sire A warmer welcome deals; And, stooping low, on one fair brow His heart's adoption seals. 

 A dearer bliss, a mother's kiss, Awaits the blushing bride: One look above! then smiles of love Express her joy and pride. 

 Once more good cheer removes the tear, Returns the joyous smile; Soon laughter, poured around the board, Rings through the spacious pile. 

 While dance and song employ them long, Steals in the cold, gray dawn! Back to your urn, ye phantoms, turn, And vanish o'er the lawn. 

 Stern, though in tears, with Fatal shears, Time scattered all those pearls! They fell, unstrung, old graves among; O'er all the snow-wreath curls!

 Yet shines that light from lattice bright, Wide o'er the grass, or snow; Still all the room its rays illume, As when, so long ago, Its arrowy star recalled the car Then winding round the wood, And lime-rock gray threw back the ray Across the rapid flood. 

 Though cold each form, their _love_, still warm, From hearth and lattice glows: Hearts kind and dear yet linger here, And bid us to repose. 

 The skies are dark! No moonbeams mark Or wall, or traveller's way: O'er rock and wood thick storm-clouds brood, And doubts our steps delay. 

 No beacon-light yet cheers the night: How gloomy grows the hour! Ah! there it shines, in lance-like lines, Sharp through the misty shower. 

 Shine on, fair star, through storms, afar! Still bless the nightly way! Always the same, a vestal flame, Love shall maintain thy ray. 

THE FOURTH OF JULY. 

It was the anniversary of our Glorious Fourth. The evil genius whospecially presides over the destinies of unoffending college boys putit into the heads of five of us to celebrate the day by an excursionby water to Nahant Beach. The morning was delightful, --the cool summerair just freshening into a steady and favoring breeze, the suntempered in his ferocity by an occasional cloud above us, the sea calmand pleasant--and all that sort of thing, you know--just what you wanton such occasions, --and we set sail from Braman's, resolved to have "ajolly good time. " I can't describe our passage down. It was altogethertoo full of fun to be written on one sheet. Suffice it to say, welaughed, and sang, and joked, and ate, and drank ('t was when we wereyoung), and so on, all the way, and in fact I felt rather disappointedat arriving so soon as we did at our destined port. Here new pleasuresawaited us, in the shape of acquaintances unexpected and unexpecting, rides on the beach, bowling, and loafing in general, --much too rich tobe described here and now. But there is an end to all sport, and ourscame quite too soon. The shadows had begun to lengthen considerablybefore we thought of starting on our return, and certain ominousindications in the heavens above us warned us, that, as our passagehomewards was not by land, further delay was unadvisable. 

Dolefully we set our sail, and made for Boston Harbor. We began tofeel the reaction which always follows a season of extreme joviality, and our spirits were down. Our chief wit, Tom B----, who had beforekept us in a perpetual roar all the way, sat moody and desponding, andanswered gruffly every question put to him; speaking only when spokento, and then in monosyllables rarely used in polite circles. Our_other_ joker, second only to Tom, the above named, having amused usduring the whole day by long yarns spun out from a varied experienceand a rich imagination, betook himself to slumber, and tried to dreamthat he was safe home again. The rest of us performed our duties aboutthe boat in gloomy silence, looking occasionally with some anxiety atthe clouds gathering slowly over our heads, but keeping our opinionswithin our own breasts. I had no apprehension of danger, for nothingindicated a gale; in fact, the breeze was gradually deserting us. Allthat was to be feared was a calm, steady rain, which, visiting us at adistance of several miles from home, and late at night, promised anything but an agreeable conclusion to our day's excursion. At last itcame. First, a heavy drop, then a few more, and then a regular, straight, old-fashioned pour. 

Our sail hung motionless, and we seemed to stand still and takeit. Our companions were soon roused from their abstraction by the veryunpleasant circumstances, and we hastily took counsel together. 

"Unship the mast, " says Tom, "and over with your oars. "

We obeyed our captain sulkily, and soon were moving on again. Wepulled away for an hour or so, drenched with the rain, which seemed tocome down faster than ever, and were about as miserable and down-casta pack of wretches as ever lived; for there is nothing like a goodducking (to use the common expression) to take the life and spirit outof a man, not to mention the other discomforts that attended oursituation. 

Silently we rowed, and not a sound was heard above the plashing of therain upon the surface of the sea, and the regular stroke of the oars. 

"It's very strange that we don't reach old Point Shirley, " says Tom, who had been on the look out for this landmark during the lasthalf-hour. 

"Very strange, " said we, and pulled away as before. 

Thus passed another half-hour in silent, ceaseless occupation, when, from the mere force of habit, I dipped my hand over the boat'sgunwale, with the hope of cooling my blistered palm in the salt water. Judge of my surprise, when I found my hand immersed in _thick blackmud_. 

"By Jove, fellows, " cried I, "we're floored!"

There was no mistaking the fact; we were aground. At that instant themoon burst out from between the drifting clouds, and, as if inderision, threw a streak of light over our melancholy position. Therewe were, high and dry on a bank of mud, a scooped furrow on each sideof us attesting the frantic efforts of our oarsmen to get a headway, and a long wake, ten feet in extent, marking our distance from the seabehind us. Such was our position as the moon revealed it to us. Welooked dolefully in one another's faces for three minutes; then a grimsmile gradually stole over Tom's expressive countenance, as he slowlyejaculated, "Point Shirley it is!" when the ludicrous side of thematter seemed to occur to each of us simultaneously, and we indulgedourselves with a roar of laughter, --the first since we had leftNahant. 

Of course, nothing could be done under the circumstances; but we mustwait patiently for the rising of the tide to float us off. So we satthere in our wet garments until the dead of night, when our boatgradually lifted herself off and we started again, and finally arrivedat Braman's early in the morning. 

The moral of this tale may be summed up in a single word, --TEMPERANCE. 

FROM THE PAPERS OF REGINALD RATCLIFFE, ESQ. 

In college I was the "Illustrious Lazy. " In my professional studiesand avocations, I have been so hard driven, in order to make up forfour idle years, that I am wasted almost to a shadow, and fears areentertained that I shall wholly vanish into thin air. My physiciantalks gravely about my having exhausted my nervous energy, and sendsme to Ratborough, as the place of all others the most favorable forentire intellectual repose. I am living with an old aunt, TabithaFlint, who was wont to rock me, and trot me, and wash my face, in myhelpless infancy, and can hardly yet be convinced that I have outgrownsuch endearing assiduities in the twenty-five years that haveintervened. I let her pet me, so far as I find it convenient, and, indeed, farther, because I feel grateful for the kind feelings ofwhich I am the object. 

There is another personage in the household, who probably thinks thatin the exuberant kindness of my aunt I have a full average ofcivility, without the least interest on her part. Do not for a momentimagine that I am piqued at her insulting indifference of mannertowards a young man who (I beg you to believe) is not wholly withoutclaim to a glance of approbation now and then from a lady's eye. Youmust not suppose I care at all about the matter. But as I have noteven a book allowed me to take up my thoughts, my curiosity fixesitself strangely upon this silent, sulky, meditative little person, who takes about as much notice of me as of the figure of Father Timeover the clock. 

What can such a body have to think about the livelong day that is soabsorbing that all one's bright thoughts, and one's most whimsicalsallies, pass without notice? Should I see her once move a muscle ofher very plain, doggedly inexpressive, provokingly composed phiz, Ishould jump up and cry, "Bo!" with surprise. 

She vanishes several hours at a time, and I hear her humming toherself, sometimes in one room, sometimes in another. I wish I knewhow she amuses herself, for I find self-amusement the hardest drudgeryI ever tried. I could stamp, I am so impatient of doing nothing butlounge about; I am as snappish as a chained cur, as cross as a cagedbear. And while I gnaw my nails, and stretch, and yawn, I hear thatcontented, bee-like murmur, and now and then a light, rapid step onthe stairs, or about rooms which I do not frequent. What can she findto be so busy about, the absurd little person? how can she be so happyin this dull house alone?

There is a piano, but as silent as she is. I do not see her wince, though I drum upon the keys with most ingenious discords, and singfalse on purpose as loud as I can bellow. I will not ask her if shecan play; she can have no ear at all, or she would box mine inself-defence. 

There is somebody, by name Flora, who is looked for daily bystage-coach. "Flory, " says my aunt, "sings like a canary-bird, andplays a sight, "--and _at sight_ too, it seems. This Miss Flora will befound to possess a tongue, I hope, and the disposition to give itexercise. I do not know certainly that Miss Etty--By the way, what isher real name? I won't condescend to ask any question about her. Butreally, I wish I knew whether it is Mehitable. Perhaps Henrietta. No, no, that is too pretty a name; I shall call her _Little Ugly_. 

Hark! I have two or three times heard a very musical laugh in thedirection of the kitchen. Heigh-ho! How can any mortal laugh inRatborough! Having nothing better to do, I will go and see who thisvery merry personage may be. I will inquire into this gay outbreak, ina land of stupidity. Hark, again!--how refreshing! I must and willknow what caused such a gush of mirth. Irish humor, perhaps, for Norahis laughing, after her guttural fashion, too. --

As I popped my head into the kitchen, Little Ugly was just vanishingat the opposite door. I could not make Norah tell me what Miss Ettyput under her arm, as she looked over her shoulder at me, and dartedout of sight. O my noisy boots! I might as well wear a bell round myneck. 

Stage-wheels are rattling up the road. Now they run upon the grassbefore the door. I rush in undignified haste to the window. ShallI--will I--go and help this long-expected Miss Flora to alight?No, --for I see forty boxes on the coach-top. A very handsome girl, really! I will get out a blameless dickey, --if such there be. Firstimpressions are important. I wish my hair was cut!

I hear my aunt coming to inform me of Flora's arrival. I shall behugely surprised! Humph!--will it be worth while to trouble myselfabout the lop-eared dickey? Little Ugly will be amused, if I do. She_can_ laugh, it seems. I had thought there was no fun in her mentalcomposition. Yet I have imagined a glimmer or so in her eyes, when shethought I was not looking at them, and the shadow of a dimple in hercheek now and then. 

Instead of Adonizing, I will set my long locks on end, and don myslipshod slippers. "Yes, Aunt; I hear, good lady! I will presentlyarrive, to make my bow to _Little Handsome_. "

 * * * * *

_Journal, Sept. 23d_. Truly, the presence of Miss Flora Cooper makesWillow Valley a new place. At least six hours are taken from thelength of the days, though I have given up my afternoon slumber, andplay chess and backgammon instead of drumming on the table orpiano. Now am I relieved from that tedious companion, my own self. Inever liked him very well; I had rather do any thing than have a sobertalk with a serious personage, who always takes me to do for notmaking more of him. He scolds me, just as a stay-at-home wife lecturesa gay husband, who never returns to his better half when he finds anything to amuse him abroad. Good-by, old fellow; I have found bettercompany than your rememberings or hopings; to wit, Miss Flora Cooper, alias Little Handsome, alias Aunt Tabby's Canary. 

The first day or two after her arrival, Miss Flora pouted at me. Iwas exceedingly well amused, making all the saucy speeches I couldthink of, in the pure spirit of mischief, and taking no notice of hertossing her pretty head, and turning her back upon me. Finding thather displeasure was not producing any particular effect upon theobject of it, I imagine the indignant beauty begins to plot adifferent revenge on me. "Ha, ha! Miss Flora! It is not because youlike me better than you did, that you are all smiles, and grace, andsunshine. I shall not flatter you the more, I am determined. I am onmy guard. You shall never boast of me on your list of obsequiousadmirers. No, no, Little Handsome! I am no lady's man, and never wasflirted withal in my life. I defy your smiles, as stoutly as yourfrowns. I like your pretty face; yes, it is exceedingly beautiful, asfar as form and coloring go to make up the beauty of a face. And theplay of the features, --yes, very lively and pretty, only too much ofit. You should not smile so often; and I am tired of your prettysurprise, your playful upbraidings, and the raps of your fan. I wantmore repose of feature, Little Handsome. Now, what a contrast you andsedate Miss Etty present! Ah, very good! I am glad you have given upfollowing Little Ugly out of the room the moment we rise fromtable. You sit down to your tiny basket, and demurely take outsomething that passes for work. I don't see you do much at it, however. I give you warning that I never hold skeins to be wound, notI. I will not read aloud; so you need not offer me that 'Sonnet toFlora, ' in manuscript, nor your pet poet in print. We will talk; it isa comfort to have my wit appreciated, after wasting so much on myaunt, who cannot, and Miss Etty, who will not understand. I am glad tohave a chance to speak, and to hear a human voice in answer. I likeespecially to rattle on when any nonsense will do. Chat is trulyagreeable when one's brains are not severely taxed to keep it going. "

_Sept. 24th_. Charming little Canary! I have spent the forenoon withher at the piano. I like her playing when she does not attempt myfavorite tunes. It must be confessed she is apt to vary somewhat, andnot for the better always. Her singing, --Aunt Tabitha well describesit as that of a canary; sweet and liquid, and clear, and sustained, but all alike. Her throat is a fine instrument; I shall teach her touse it with more expression and feeling. We will have another lessonto-morrow. 

I thought, though, there was a shadow over her face when I called it_practising_. Etty's eyes met mine at the moment, a rare occurrence. What was her thought? One cannot read in her immovable face. 

_Evening_. I am booked for a horseback ride with Little Handsometo-morrow morning. How did she make me offer? I did not mean to. Allcountry girls ride, I believe. I often see Miss Etty cantering throughthe shady lanes all by herself. I saw the bars down, at the end of thetrack through the wood, one day. I immediately concluded that LittleUgly had paced off that way, that I need not see her from my window. Iput the bars up again, and lay in wait behind the bushes. Soon I heardher approaching. I come forward as she comes near, on that rat-likepony of hers, who holds his head down as if searching for somethinglost in the road. I stand in doubt whether to laugh at herpredicament, or advance in a gentlemanly manner to remove the obstacleI had put in her way. When lo! the absurd little nag clears it at abound, and skims away over the green track like a swallow, till hevanishes under the leafy arch. I am left in a very foolish attitude, with mouth and eyes wide open. 

Now this independent young lady shall be at liberty to take care ofherself, with no officious interference of mine; I will not invite herto join us to-morrow morning, as I intended. I wonder if any horsesare to be procured that are not rats. I hope Miss Flora knows enoughto mount her pony, for I am sure I do not know how to help her. Whew!I hope we shall meet with no disasters! I feel certain Little Handsomewould scream like a sea-gull, pull the wrong rein, tangle her foot inthe stirrup or riding-skirt, faint, fall, break her neck--O horrors!Will not the dear old Aunt Tabitha forbid her going?

What a well-proportioned and ladylike figure it was, now I think ofit! How gracefully she sat upon her flying Dobbin!

_Sept. 25th_. Rainy. Glad of it. Breakfast late. Miss Etty did notappear, having been up some hours, I imagine. What for, I wonder? Whatcan she be about? One thing pleases me in her. If Aunt Tabitha wantsany little attention, a needle threaded, or a dropped stitch taken up, Miss Etty quietly comes to her aid. It is so entirely a matter ofcourse, the old lady only smiles, but any service from Flora callsforth an acknowledgment; it being a particular effort of good nature, and generally the fruit of a direct appeal. Miss Etty talks more thanshe did, too. While I am talking nonsense with Little Handsome, I hearher amusing my good aunty, and I catch a few words, her utterancehaving a peculiar distinctness, and the lowest tones being fine andclear, like those of a good singer on a pianissimo strain. It is apeculiarly ladylike articulation; was she born and bred in Ratborough, I wonder? She never speaks while we are singing. Does she like music, then? I asked her once, but what sort of answer is "Yes!" to such aquestion? And that is all I elicited. 

Music again, the forenoon occupation. Miss Flora does not like beingcriticized, I find. One must not presume to set her right in thesmallest particular. Singers are proverbially irritable! I am notcertain _I_ could belong to a glee-club, and never get cross orunreasonable. I hate to be corrected; but I hate more to be incorrect. I could give Canary a hint or two now and then that would beserviceable, if she would permit it. I have no right, however, to takeit upon me to instruct her, and it puts her in a pet. She laughed itoff, but I saw the mounting color and the flashing glance. I am animpudent fellow, I suppose. Honest, to boot. I think she need not takeoffence at what was intended as a friendly help. I am no flatterer, atleast. Really, I am hurt that I might not take so trifling a libertyin behalf of my favorite song. I'll walk off as often as she singsit. Can her temper be perfectly good? And yet, one could not expect--Iought not to be surprised. Yet I can't help thinking, suppose--justsuppose I _had_ a right to find fault, --suppose I were a nearfriend, --would she bear it then? Supposing she were my companion forlife--Humph! that startles one, --was I near thinking of it in earnest?She is beautiful; I should be proud of her abroad. But at home, --athome, where there should be confidence, would there not be constraint?Must no improvement ever be suggested, because it impliesimperfection? I hope none of my friends will ever be on such termswith me; if I am touchy like a nettle, may they grasp me hard, andfear me not. 

_Sept. 26th_. This little sheet of water in front of the house has thegreatest variety of aspects; its face is like a human face, full ofvarying expressions. A slight haze made it so beautiful just beforesunset, I took my chair, and put it out of the window upon the grass, then followed it, and sat with it tipped back against the house, closeby the window of one of those mysterious rooms where Miss Etty immuresherself. I heard the Canary say in a scolding tone, "I should thinkyou might oblige me; it is such a trifle to do, it is not worthrefusing. Why should you care for him!"

No answer, though I confess my ears were erected to the sharpestattitude of listening. I was wholly oblivious of _myself_, or I shouldhave taken myself away, as in honor bound. 

"Won't you now, Etty? I'll only ask for one of our old duets, justone. "

"No, Flora, " said Little Ugly, coldly enough. 

"Why not?" No answer. 

"To be sure, _he_ might hear. He would find out that you aremusical. What of that? Where is the use of being _able_ to sing, tosing only when there's nobody to listen?"

"I sing only to friends. I cannot sing, I have never sung, to personsin whom I have no confidence. "

"Afraid! What a little goose!"

"Not afraid, exactly. "

"I don't comprehend, I am sure. "

"I do not expect you should. "

"I never did understand you. "

"You never will. " Silence again. 

Flora tuned up, and, of all tunes, she must needs hum _my_ song. I wason my feet in a moment to depart, when I heard the clear tones ofEtty's voice again, and stood still, with one foot advanced. 

"Flora, you should sharp that third note in the last line. "

Flora murdered it again, with the most atrocious, cold-bloodedcruelty. I almost mocked the sound aloud in my passion. 

"I do not tell you to vex you, only I saw that Mr. Ratcliffe--"

"You need not trouble yourself about _his_ opinion. "

"I knew you would not like it, if I told you of a mistake. But Isupposed you would rectify it, and I should have done you a kindness, even against your will. "

"And I to hate you for it, eh?"

"If you can. "

"Indeed I cannot, Etty, for you are my very best friend. But you are ahorrid, truth-telling, formidable body. Why not let me sing on, my ownway? I don't thank you a bit. I had rather sing it wrong, than becorrected. It hurts my pride. I think people should take my music asthey find it. If it does not please them, they are not obliged to askme to sing. One note wrong can surely be put up with, if the rest isworth hearing. I shall continue to sing it as I have done, I think. "

"No, --please don't!"

"If I will mend it when I think of it, will you sing a duet?"

"Yes, though it will cost me more than you know. "

"Poh!" And Flora sang the song, without accompaniment. The desiredsharp rung upon my ears, and set my nerves at rest. 

"Bravo! Encore!" I cried, beneath the window, and was pelted withpeach-stones. 

I wonder when this duet is to come off. 

_Sept. 27th_. Have not stirred from the house. But I have not heardany voice but Flora's. She has been uncommonly amiable andfascinating, and I--am I not rather bewitched? I cannot keep myresolution of not being flirted with. I cannot be wise, and reserved, and indifferent. Am I trifling? Or am I in earnest? Indeed I don'tknow. I only know I am constantly at the side of Little Handsome, without knowing how I came there. She makes me sing with her, ridewith her, walk with her, at her will, and as if that was not enoughfor one day, to test her power over me, to-night she made me dancewith her. And now I feel like a fool as I think of Etty playing awaltz for us, at Flora's request, and giving me a long, serious lookas I approached the piano to compliment her playing. I could not uttera word. I answered her gaze with one as sober, and more sad, and cameaway to my room, to have some talk with my real self. Now for it. 

Says I to Myself, "A truce to your upbraidings, you old scold; tell meat once how you find yourself affected towards this charming littleFlora. "

Says Myself, "There are no tastes in common between her and me. "

Says I, quickly, "Music!" and triumphed a moment or two. 

But the snarling old fellow asked whether I liked her singing, or herflattery? For his part, he thought we both liked to hear our ownvoices, and agreed in nothing else. Taste, indeed! when I would notlet her sing a song I cared a fillip for. 

In short, my self-communion ended in some very sage resolutions. Ifeared the beautiful head with the shining curls was somewhatvacant. And the heart, --was that empty likewise? Or was that hiddencell the home of all the loveliest affections, the firmest and purestfaith and motive, every thing that should be there to rule thelife--and--my picture on the wall? A question this. --Does she love me?"O yes!" answered vanity. "O no!" said good sense, "not at all. Ifyour picture is in her heart, it is one of a whole gallery. Don't bea fop. It is not your character. Don't let Flora make a fool of you. "

And I resolved--

_Sept. 27th_. A very dull day. "You are as sober as a judge, " saidFlora at breakfast. I caught Etty's eye, --but it said nothing. AuntTabitha, who yesterday evidently thought me in desperate case, andonce inquired about my income very significantly, now suspected aquarrel between Flora and me. I was embarrassed, and overturned thecream. "No great loss, " said Etty, seeing that I was chagrined. "Aseasy made up as a lovers' quarrel, " said Aunt Tabitha. Silly oldwoman! No, silly young fellow! Flora has revenged herself on me as shemeant to do, for defying her power. She has turned my head; made meact like a simpleton. But "Richard's himself again, " and wiser than hewas. 

_P. M_. I endeavored to talk more with Miss Etty, that the change in mymanner might be less observed. It was all natural that I should be asgrave as a judge when I addressed myself to so quiet a member ofsociety. She seemed to divine my object, and sustained the dialogue; Inever knew her to do it before. It is not diffidence, it seems, thathas been the cause of this reserve; I was the more diffident of thetwo, failing to express my thoughts well, from a hurry and uncertaintyof mind which I am not often troubled withal. It was partlyastonishment, in truth, that confused me. Little Ugly and I actuallyexchanging ideas! I shall call her Little Ugly still, however, for Icould not make her look at me as she spoke, nor answer my wit by achange of countenance. 

_Sept. 28th_. Little Handsome cannot be convinced that the flirtationis over, --absolutely at an end. She alternately rails at my capricioussolemnity, and pretends to be grieved at it. I can see that nothingbut my avoidance of a _tete-a-tete_ is my safety. Should thesentimental tone prevail, and tears come into those beautiful eyes, Iam a gone man. At my earnest request, (I have grown humble or _bold_enough to ask a favor, ) Miss Etty has brought, or rather dragged, herwork-basket into the parlor. A great basket it is, so great, that Iimagine in her own apartment she gets into the middle of it bodily. Isat down to watch the motions of her adroit little digits in darningstockings, and mending homely garments. I imagined, rather than saw, ahumorous gleam in her eye, as I did so, and there was certainly aslight contraction of her mouth in length, as if to counteract aninclination of the muscles to move in the opposite direction. 

Flora fluttered about the room like a bright-hued butterfly, pausing amoment at a window or a bookcase, or resting awhile to play a fewcapricious notes on the piano, and sometimes coming to view MissEtty's employment, as if it were a branch of industry she wasunacquainted with, and curious about. 

The maples are turning red already. The setting sun threw a gloriouslight through their tinted foliage, and the still bosom of the lakereflected it in a softened, changeable hue of mingled crimson andsilver. Flora was standing at the door. I somehow found myself therealso; but I talked over my shoulder to Aunt Tabitha about potatoes. 

"I have a fancy for a walk round the pond, " said Flora. After a pause, she looked at me, as much as to say, "Don't you see, you monster, itis too late for me to go alone?"

"Miss Flora, I will second your wish, if you can drum up a thirdparty, " said I, point-blank. 

Flora blushed, and pouted for a moment, then beckoned to Little Ugly, who disobligingly suggested that the grass would be wet. It sohappened there was no dew, and Flora convinced her of the fact byrunning in the grass, and then presenting the sole of her shoe for herinspection. Miss Etty, her ill-chosen objection being vanquished, wentfor her bonnet, and we set forth, Miss Flora's arm in mine as a matterof course, and Miss Etty's in hers, save where the exigencies of thewoodland path gave her an excuse to drop behind. A little boat tied toa stump, suggested to Flora a new whim. Instead of going round thepond, which I now began to like doing, I must weary myself with rowingher across. I was ready enough to do it, however, had not Miss Ettyquietly observed that the pond was muddy, and the boat unseaworthy. Flora would not have yielded to twenty feet of water, --but mud! Shesighed, and resumed my arm. I, offering the other to Miss Etty in sodetermined a way, that she could not waive accepting it, marchedforward with spirits rising into high glee and loquacity. Presently, feeling a sudden irritation at the feather-like lightness with whichLittle Ugly's fingers just touched my elbow, as if she disdained anysupport from me, I caught her hand and drew it through my arm, andwhen I relinquished it, pressed her arm to my side with mine, thinkingshe would snatch it away, and walk alone in offended dignity. Whethershe was too really dignified for that, or took my rebuke as it wasintended, I know not, but she leaned on my arm with somewhat greaterconfidence during the remainder of our walk, and now and then evenvolunteered a remark. Before we finished the circumambulation of thepond, she had quite forgotten her sulky reserve, and talked with muchearnestness and animation, Flora subsiding into a listener, with awilling interest which raised her in my estimation considerably. 

And now that I am alone in my room, and journalizing, it behooves meto gather up and record some of those words, precious from theirrarity. Flora and I, in our merry nonsense, had a mock dispute, andreferred the matter to Miss Etty for arbitration. 

"Etty, mind you side with me, " said Flora. 

"Be an impartial umpire, Miss Etty, " said I, "and you will be on myside. "

Little Ugly was obliged to confess that she had not heard a word ofthe matter, her thoughts being elsewhere, intently engaged. 

"I must request you to excuse my inattention, " she said, "and torepeat what you were saying. "

"The latter request I scorn to grant, " said I, "and the former we willconsider about when we have heard what thoughts have been preferred toour most edifying conversation. "

"You shall tell us, " said Flora. "Yes, or we till go off and leave youto your meditations, here in the dark woods, with the owls and thetree-toads, whom you probably prefer for company. "

Miss Etty condescended to confess she should be frightened without mymanful protection. --Quite a triumph!

"I must thank you, " she said, "for the novelty of an evening walk inthe woods. I enjoy it, I confess, very highly. Look at those dark, mysterious vistas, and those deepening shadows blending the bank withits mirror; how different from the trite daylight truth! It tookstrong hold of my imagination. "

"Go on. And so you were thinking--"

"I was hardly doing so much as thinking. I was seeing it to remember. "

"Etty draws like an artist, " said Flora, in a whisper. 

"I was taking a mental daguerreotype of my companions, by twilight, and of all the scene round, too, in the same grey tint, just to lookat some ten or fifteen years hence, when--"

"Let us all three agree, " said I, "on the 28th of September, 18--, toremember this evening. I am certain _I_ shall look back to it withpleasure. "

"O horrid!" shrieked Flora; "how can you talk so! By that time youwill be a shocking, middle-aged sort of person! I always wonder howpeople can be resigned to live, when they have lost youth, and with itall that makes life bearable! Fifteen years! Dismal thought! I shallhave outlived every thing I care about in life!" So moaned LittleHandsome. 

"But you may have found new sources of interest, " suggested I, perhapsa little too tenderly, for I had some sympathy with her dread of thatparticular phase of existence, middle-agedness. "Perhaps as themistress of a household--"

"Worse and worse!" screamed Flora. "A miserable comforter you are! Asif it were not enough merely to grow old, but one must be a slave anda martyr, never doing any thing one would prefer to do, nor goinganywhere that one wants to go, --bound for ever to one spot, and oneperpetual companion--"

"Planning dinners every day for cooks hardly less ignorant thanyourself, " added I, laughing at her selfish horror of matronlybondage, yet provoked at it. "Miss Etty, would _you_, if you could, stand still instead of going forward?"

"My happiness is altogether different from Flora's, " she replied, "though we were brought up side by side. What has taught me to beindependent of the world and its notice was my being continuallycompared with her, and assured, with compassionate regret, that I hadnone of those qualifications which could give me success in generalsociety. "

"Which was a libel--" I began. 

"Without the last syllable, " said Flora, catching up the word. 

"At any rate, I knew I was plain and shy, and made friends slowly. SoI chose such pleasures as should be under my own control, and couldnever fail me. They make my life so much happier and more preciousthan it was ten years ago, that I feel certain I shall have a widerand fuller enjoyment of the same ten years hence. "

What they are, I partly guess, and partly drew from her, in heruncommonly frank mood. I begin to perceive that I, as well as Flora, have been cherishing most mistaken and unsatisfactory aims. My surlyold inner self has often hinted as much, but I would not hear him. Etty may have _her_ mistaken views too, but she has set me thinking. 

Well, you crusty old curmudgeon, what has been my course since the aweof the schoolmaster ceased to be a sort of external conscience?

"You told me study was none of my business, " says Conscience, "and apretty piece of work you have made of it without me. Idle in college, and, when you began to perceive the connection between study and whatpeople call success in life, overworking yourself, here you are, andjust beginning to bethink yourself that I might have furnished justthe right degree of stimulus, if you had but allowed it. "--

Hark! hark! It is the duet! That silvery second is Etty's. I willsteal down stairs, and when they have ended, pop in, and it shall gohard but I will have another song. 

Parlor dark and empty. I fancied I heard Flora giggling somewhere, butI might be mistaken. Yet the voices sounded as if they came from thatquarter--and--and I am sure I heard one note on the piano to give thepitch. Hark! I hear the parlor door softly shut, and now the stairscreak, and betray them stealing up, as they probably betrayed mestealing down. They only blew out the lights and kept perfectlystill. --Witches!--Donkey!

Etty, your voice is still with me, clear, sweet, and penetrating, asit was when you talked so eloquently to-night, in our dreamy ramble. --What if I had early adopted her idea, that with every conscious poweris bound up both the duty and the pleasure of developing it? Might Inot now have reached higher ground, with health of body and mind?Ambition is an unhealthy stimulus. A wretchedly uneasy guest too, inthe breast of an invalid. I would fain have a purer motive, whichshall dismiss or control it. 

Etty, --what are the uses to be made of _her_ talents, while she livesthus withdrawn into a world of her own? Certainly, she is wrong; Ishall convince her of it, when our friendship, now fairly planted, Itrust, shall have taken root. Now we shall be the best friends in theworld, and I will confide to her my--my--O, I am nodding over mypaper, and that click says the old clock at the stair-head is makingready to announce midnight. 

_Sept. 29th_. Capricious are the ways of womankind! Little Ugly ismore thoroughly self-occupied and undemonstrative than ever. I amchagrined, --I think I am an ill-used man. I am downright angry andhave half a mind to flirt with Little Handsome, out of spite. OnlyMiss Etty is too indifferent to care. I did but leave my old aunt toFlora, and step back to remark that it was a pleasant Sunday, that thesermon was homely and dull, and that the singing was discordant. MissEtty assented, but very coldly, and presently she bolted into an oldred house, and left me to go home by myself. When we started forchurch again, she was among the missing, and we found her in the pew, on our arrival. Thus pointedly to avoid me!--It might be accident, however, for she did not refuse to sing from the same hymn-book withme, and pointed to a verse on the other page, quaint, butexcellent. After all, old Watts has written the best hymns in thelanguage. 

_Evening_. Without choice, I found myself walking round the pondagain. It was as smooth as glass, and the leaves scarcely trembled onthe trees and bushes round it. And in my heart reigned a similar calm. A strange quiet has fallen on my usually restless and anxious mind. Ithought that in future I could be content not to look beyond thepresent duty, and, having done my best in all circumstances, that Icould leave the results to follow as God wills. At that moment I couldsincerely say, "Let him set me high or low, wherever he has work forme to perform. " If I can remain thus quiet in mind, my health willsoon return, I feel assured. 

"_If!_" A well-founded distrust, I fear. This peace must be only amood, to pass away when my natural spirits return. The fever ofcovetousness, of rivalry, of envy, and ambitious earthly aspirations, will come back. Like waves upon the lake, these uneasy feelings willchase each other over my soul. I picked up a little linen wristband atthis moment, which I recognized. "She does not deserve to have itagain, sulky Little Ugly!" said I. "I will put it in my pocket-book, and keep it as a remembrancer, for--I am glad to perceive--this is thevery spot where we stood when we agreed to remember it and each otherfifteen years hence. We will see what I shall be then, and I shallhave some aid from this funny little talisman; it will speak to mequite as intelligibly and distinctly as its owner in a _silent_ mood, at any rate. "--

Heigh-ho! How lonely I feel to-night! Every human soul is--must be--ahermit, yet there might be something nearer companionship than I havefound for mine as yet. No one knows me. My real self--Ha! old fellow, I like you better than I did; let us be good friends. 

_Sept. 30th_. A golden sunrise. How much one loses under a false ideaof its being a luxury to sleep in the morning! Reclining under FarmerPuddingstone's elm, and looking upon the glassy pond, in which theglowing sky mirrored itself, my soul was fired with poeticinspiration. On the blank page of a letter, I wrote:

 "How holy the calm, in the stillness of morn, "--

and threw down my paper, being suddenly quenched by self-ridicule, asI was debating whether to write "To Ethelind" over the top. Returningthat way after my ramble, I found the following conclusion pinned tothe tree by a jackknife:--

 "How holy the calm, in the stillness of morn, -- When to call 'em to breakfast Josh toots on the horn, The ducks gives a quack, and the caow gives a moo, And the childen chimes in with their plaintive boo-hoo. 

 "How holy the calm, in the stillness of neune, When the pot is a singin its silvery teune, -- Its soft, woolly teune, jest like Aribi's Darter, While the tea-kettle plays up the simperny arter. 

 "How holy the calm, in the stillness of night, When the moon, like a punkin, looks yaller and bright; While the aowls an' the katydids, screeching like time, Jest brings me up close to the eend o' my rhyme. "

And underneath was added, as if in scorn of my fruitless endeavor:--

"I wrote that are right off, as fast as you could shell corn. S. P. "

I suppose it is by way of thanks for my having driven the pigs fromthe garden, that I find a great bunch of dahlias adorning mymantelpiece. A brown earthen pitcher! And in the middle of thedahlias, a magnificent sunflower! It must be my aunt's doing, and itsvery homeliness pleases me, just as I love her homely sincerity ofaffection. Who arranges the glasses in the parlor? Etty, I would notfear to affirm, from the asters and golden-rod, cheek by jole withpetunias and carnations. I wonder if she would not like some of theclematis I saw twining about a dead tree by the pond. It is morebeautiful in its present state than when it was in flower. Etty loveswild flowers because she is one herself, and loves to hide here in hernative nook, where no eye (I might except my own) gives her more thana casual glance. --

_Noon_. "I shall think it quite uncivil of Little Ugly if she does notvolunteer to arrange my share of the booty I am bringing, now that Ihave almost broken my neck, and quite my cane, to obtain it. " This Isaid to myself, as I came into the house by the kitchen entrance, andproceeded to deposit my trailing treasures on Norah's table, by theside of a yellow squash. 

"Do go with me to Captain Black's, " said Etty's voice at the sidedoor. "The old folks have not seen you since your return. "

"I can't!" said Flora with a drawl. 

"Yes, do! Be coaxable, for once!"

"It only makes me obstinate to coax. Why not go without me, I beg?"

"I am no novelty. I was in twice only yesterday. Old people likeattention from such as you, because--"

"Because it is unreasonable to expect it. "

"The old man is failing. "

"I can't do him any good. It is dusty, and my gown is long. "

"It would please him to see you. I went to sit with him yesterday, butTimothy Digfort came in, with the same intent. So I went to church, having walked in the graveyard till the bell rang. "

"Owl that you are! I don't envy you the lively meditations you musthave had. Why don't you go? It's of no use waiting for me. "

"What! Will you let me carry both these baskets?"

"There, put the little one on the top of the other. I don't thinkthree or four peaches and a few flowers can add much to the weight. Itis tiresome enough to do what I don't want to do, when it is reallynecessary. "

And Little Handsome danced into the parlor, without perceiving me. Ilaid a detaining hand on Etty's basket as she put herself in motion, on which she turned round with a look of unfeigned astonishment. 

"May I not be a substitute for Flora?" I inquired. 

"I do not require any aid, " said Miss Etty shyly. "It is not on thataccount I was urging Flora. Please to let me have the basket. --Indeed, it is quite unnecessary you should trouble yourself, " she insisted, asI persevered in carrying off my load. 

"It is the old red house, is it not?" said I, "with the roof slopingalmost to the ground. And shall I say that _you_ sent this? A view ofmy strange phiz will not refresh the old people like the sight ofFlora's fresh young face, but I shall go in, and make the agreeable aswell as I can. "

"Are you really in earnest?" asked Etty, looking full in my face, witha smile of wonder that made her radiantly beautiful. She turned awayblushing at my surprised and eager gaze, and, taking up her littlebasket, joined me, without a word of answer on my part. It was sometime before I quite recovered from a strange flurry of spirits, whichmade my heart bump very much as it does when I hear any unexpectedgood news. And then I dashed away upon the subject of old age, and anything else that came uppermost, in the hope of drawing thesoul-lighted eyes to mine again, with that transfiguring smile playingupon the lips. 

But I was like an unskilful magician; I had lost the spell; I couldnot again discover the spring I had touched. In vain I said to myself, "I'll make her do it again!" Little Ugly would'nt!

She answered my incoherent sallies in her usual sedate manner, and Ibelieve it was only in my imagination that her cheek dimpled a little, with a heightened color, now and then, when I was particularlyeloquent. 

Introduced by Miss Etty, I was cordially welcomed. I am alwaysaffected by the sight of an aged woman who at all reminds me of thegrandmother so indulgent to my prankful boyhood. The old man, too, interested me; he has seen much of the world, in his seafaring life, and related his adventures in a most unhackneyed style. I'll go andsee them every day. One of the Captain's anecdotes was very good. "Anold salt, " he said, "once--once--" Bah, what was it? How very lovelyEtty looked, sitting on a cricket at the old woman's feet, and, with ahalf smile on her face, submitting her polished little head to bestroked by her trembling hands! This I saw out of the corner of myeye. 

Hark! Aunt Tabitha's call to dinner. I am glad of it. I was scribbling_such_ nonsense, when I have so much to write better worth while. 

_12 o'clock_. The night is beautiful, and it is a piece of self-denialto close the shutter, light my lamp, and write in my journal. Peace ofmind came yesterday, positive happiness to-day, neither of which I cananalyze. I only know I have not been so thoroughly content since theacquisition of my first jackknife; nor so proud since the day when Ifirst sported a shining beaver. I have conquered Etty's distrust; shehas actually promised me her friendship. I am rather surprised that Iam so enchanted at this triumph over a prejudice. I am hugelydelighted. Not because it is a triumph, however;--vanity has nothingto do with it. It is a worthier feeling, one in which humility mingleswith a more cordial self-respect than I have hitherto been consciousof. I can, and I will, deserve Etty's good opinion. She is anuncompromising judge, but I will surprise her by going beyond what shebelieves me capable of. I never had a sister; I shall adopt Etty, andwhen I go home, we will write every week, if not every day. 

But how came it all about? By what blessed sunbeams can the ice havebeen softened, till now, as I hope, it is broken up for ever? Peopleunder the same roof cannot long mistake each other, it seems, elseEtty and I should never have become friends. 

As we left the door of Captain Black's house, and turned into thefield path to avoid the dust, Etty said, "I do not know whether youcare much about it, but you have given pleasure to these good oldpeople, who have but little variety in their daily routine, beingpoor, and infirm, and lonely. It is really a duty to cheer them up, ifwe can. " I felt that it warmed my heart to have shared that duty withher, and I said so. I thought she looked doubtful and surprised. Itwas a good opening for egotism, and I improved it. I saw that she wasno uninterested listener, but all along rather suspicious andincredulous, as if what I was claiming for myself was inconsistentwith her previous notions of my disposition. I believe I had made somelittle impression Saturday night, but her old distrust had come backby Sunday morning. Now she was again shaken. 

At last, looking up with the air of one who has taken a mightyresolve, she said, "I presume such a keen observer as yourself musthave noticed that the most reserved people are, on some occasions, themost frank and direct. I am going to tell you that I feel some apologydue to you, if my first impressions of your character are reallyincorrect. I am puzzled what to think. "

"I am to suppose that your first impressions were not as favorable asthose of Mrs. Black, whom I heard remark that I was an amiable youth, with an uncommonly pleasant smile. "

"Just the opposite, in fact, --pardon me! To my eye, you had a mocking, ironical cast of countenance. I felt sure at once you were the sort ofperson I never could make a _friend_ of, and acquaintances I leave toFlora, who wants to know every body. I thought the less I had to dowith you the better. "

I felt hurt, and almost insulted. I had not been mistaken, then; shehad disliked me, and perhaps disliked me yet. 

"It was not that I stood in fear of your satire, " she continued; "I amindifferent to ridicule or censure in general; no one but a _friend_has power to wound me. "

A flattering emphasis, truly! I felt my temper a little stirred byMiss Etty's frankness. I was sulkily silent. 

"_I_ had no claim to any forbearance, any consideration forpeculiarities of any sort. I am perfectly resigned to being the themeof your wit in any circle, if you can find aught in _my_ country-bredways to amuse you. "

Zounds! I must speak. 

"My conduct to Flora must have confirmed the charming impressionproduced by my unlucky phiz, I imagine. But don't bear malice againstme in _her_ behalf; you must have seen that she was perfectly able torevenge herself. "

Etty's light-hearted laugh rung out, and reminded me of my oncebaffled curiosity when it reached my ear from Norah's domain. Butthough this unsuppressed mirth of hers revealed the prettiest row ofteeth in the world, and made the whole face decidedly beautiful, somehow or other it gave me no pleasure, but rather a feeling ofdepression. My joining in it was pure pretence. 

Presently the brightness faded, and I found myself gazing at the coldcountenance of Little Ugly again. 

"No, I did not refer to Flora, " said she. "As you say, she can avengeher own quarrel, and we both were quite as ready to laugh at you, asyou could be to laugh at us, I assure you. "

"No doubt of it, " said I, with some pique. 

"But what I cannot forgive you, cannot think of with any toleration, is--"

"What?" cried I, astonished. "How have I offended?"

"A man of any right feeling at all could not make game of an agedwoman, his own relative, at the same time that he was receiving herhearty and affectionate hospitality. "

"Neither have I done so, " cried I, in a towering passion. "You do me agreat wrong in accusing me of it. I would knock any man down whoshould treat my aunt with any disrespect. And if I have sometimesallowed Flora to do it unrebuked, you well know that she might oncehave pulled my hair, or cuffed my ears, and I should have thought it abecoming thing for a young lady to do. I have played the fool underyour eye, and submit that you should entertain no high opinion of mywisdom. But you have no right to judge so unfavorably of my heart. IfI have spoken to my aunt with boyish petulance when she vexed me, atleast it was to her face, and regretted and atoned for to hersatisfaction. I am incapable of deceiving her, much less of ridiculingher either behind her back or before her face. I respond to her lovefor me with sincere gratitude, and the sister of my grandmother shallnever want any attention that an own grandson could render while Ilive. I shall find it hard to forgive you this accusation, Miss Etty, "I said, haughtily, and shut my mouth as if I would never speak to heragain. 

She made no answer, but looked up into my face with one of thosewondrous smiles. It went as straight to my heart as a pistol bulletcould do, my high indignation proving no defence against it. I wasinstantly vanquished, and as I heartily shook the hand she held out tome, I was just able to refrain from pressing it to my lips, which, nowI think of it, would have been a most absurd thing for me to do. Iwonder what could have made me think of doing it!

_After Dinner_. I hear Flora's musical laugh in the mysteriousboudoir, and a low, congratulatory little murmur of good humor onEtty's part. I believe she is afraid to laugh loud, lest I should hearher do it, and rush to the spot. The door is ajar; I'll storm thecastle. 

Flora admitted me with a shout of welcome, the instant I tapped. Ettypushed a rocking-chair toward me, but said nothing. The little roomwas almost lined with books. Drawings, paintings, shells, corals, and, in the sunny window, plants, met my exploring gaze, but the greatbasket was nowhere to be seen. It was got up for the nonce, I imagine. Etty a rogue!

"This is the pleasantest nook in the house. It is a shame you have notbeen let in before, " said Flora, zealously. "You shall see Etty'sdrawings. " Neither of us opened the portfolio she seized, however, butwatched Etty's eyes. They were cast down with a diffident blush whichgave me pain; I was indeed an intruder. She gave us the permission wewaited for, however. There were many good copies of lessons: those Idid not dwell upon. But the sketches, spirited though imperfect, Istudied as if they had been those of an Allston. Etty was evidently ina fidget at this preference of the smallest line of original talentover the corrected performances which are like those of every bodyelse. I drew out a full-length figure done in black chalk on brownpaper. It chained Flora's wondering attention as quite new. It was ayoung man with his chair tipped back; his feet rested on a table, witha slipper perched on each toe. His hands were clasped upon the back ofhis head. The face--really, I was angry at the diabolical expressiongiven it by eyes looking askance, and lips pressed into an arch by acontemptuous smile. It was a corner of this very brown sheet that Isaw under her arm, when she vanished from the kitchen as I entered;the vociferous mirth which attracted me was at my expense. BeforeFlora could recognize my portrait, Little Ugly pounced upon it; itfell in a crumpled lump into the bright little wood fire, and ceasedto exist. 

"I had totally forgotten it, " said she, with a blush which avenged mywounded self-love. Ironical pleasure at having been the subject of herpencil I could not indulge myself in expressing, as I did not care toenlighten Little Handsome. Any lurking pique was banished when Ettyshowed me, with a smile, the twilight view by the pond. 

"Do you draw?" she asked; and Flora cried, "He makes caricatures ofhis friends with pen and ink; let him deny it if he can!"

I was silent.