ly polite and kind to her on her journey. Bessy received him with a cordiality that rivetted the affection which her superb appearance and his classic taste had already excited. He was her companion at dinner, and almost surpassed himself in his efforts to amuse her. Like most women who are strong, and not sickly, she enjoyed mirth more than sentiment, and laughed oftener than she sighed. Powell loved her the more for that, and was inspired by it, and kept up such a succession of drolleries that all near him soon turned their whole attention to his "pops' of wit, which came without notice, and were soon perceived worth watching for. Among those who sat near was a young rustic gentleman of good position, and evidently much distressed to see Bessy the companion of another at dinner. He would not laugh at Powell's jokes, but kept a stiff upper lip, and otherwise manifested his resolution to be uncomfortable and make others so. Had Powell been capable of hating, he would have hated jealousy, and perhaps been angry at this instance of it, but he good-naturedly asked himself how he would like to have another deprive him of the company of such a sweetheart, and conscientiously determined to return kindness for the churlishness of his rival, if he could claim to be such. Wherefore he levelled at him several first rate pops," each of which penetrated, weakening the wall of separation, and showing through it a disposition to come to terms. Pursuing his advantage, just as the unhappy lover was solacing himself with a draught from a tankard of ale, Powell aimed one so expertly as to produce an explosion, blowing and spirting the ale over the table, and causing al ng laugh by the unhappy gentleman, in which the whole company joined. Non-intercourse was ended, and if the discontent was not cured, at least it was no longer exhibited. 66 The fun was not altogether squeamish. Powell, having, as usual, attracted the attention of the whole company, was called on for stories. "Tell us about your trip to Morgate. I have heard about it, and would like to hear it from your own lips," said Constable. Powell had treated himself to a trip on board a Morgate "hoy," a sail-boat that might carry five wagon loads of goods and twenty passengers. The captain was as important as an admiral, and excited the reverence of all on board, by the peremptoriness and frequency of his orders, and the unquestionable air of authority and wisdom with which they were delivered. All felt that under such a commander the perils of the voyage would be overcome. It excited much laughter to see the grand airs of this stout six foot captain imitated by little Powell. 66 While he was narrating the events and progress of the voyage his hands were playing with an orange, and chipping it with a knife, seeming like accident, but really in preparation to imitate a little old lady passenger, whom even he could not imitate without a model. The orange was cut to imitate a face, and a colored handkerchief and a napkin were made to serve as hood and dress, so as to produce a comical resemblance to a little old woman. With this model he imitated the gestures, while with his voice he gave the words of the original. 'Captain, how far have we got?" "Haven't got far, yet, ma'am. Captain, how far have we got now?" "Oh, we've got about to Greenwich, ma'am." "Captain, how far have we got now? sha'n't we be sea-sick, soon?" No, ma'am; not for a good bit, yet!" Captain, how far have we got, now?" "We're just down to Long Reach, ma'am." "Oh! oh, dear! ough" and the juice issued from the mouth of the model. The uproariousness was great, and Bessy laughed the heartiest of all, much to Powell's delight. 64 66 64 After two honrs spent in this way, in which the honest ale helped the merriment, and the long English twilight had commenced, there was a sudden jumping up by the gentlemen, each seizing his partner by force of arms, and dragging her to a dance on the lawn. The Londoners seemed at fault, but several followed suit; others, not being sufficiently acquainted for such familiarity, asked their partners for the honor of dancing with them, ard were much abashed by refusals. Turner conscious of his age, begged his young companion to forgive his request, and was retiring, but she whispered, "Why doon't 'e pull and tauk?" It occurred to him that it was an old kind of frolic, so he used force as the rest had done, and seemed not to give real offence, although the resistance was strong. All managed to get their partners to the dance ground except little Powell. As he weighed but ninety pounds, and she a hundred and eighty, he couldn't get ahead with all the force and energy he possessed. "I oon't thoo shatn't," exclaimed the young lady in the local dialect. Powell tugged and coaxed. The coaxing did more than the tugging. Now, do come!" said he, as he hugged like a little bear. The cooing tone, and intensity of the hug, made her relent, and whisper, that she would go if he would get hold of her necklace and choke her a little. He did so, and she went screaming, Thoo shatn't, oon't," etc. 66 much is it? Come now, among friends, tell me.' 66 Hear, hear! Powell; out with the facts. Perhaps we may do for you what you are too scrupulous to do for yourself." I dare say; much of the evil in the world comes from such encouragement. If I didn't know how much a young man can love an old woman, I might fancy that a fine young woman could love a little old bachelor like me; and in that case I should certainly give her the chance you speak of, and by no means neglect my own chance. As to my income, it is barely enough to keep a little vagabond so far decent, that his relations are not constrained to cut his acquaintance; seventy-five pounds a year in the funds, and as much more as I can earn, say as much more. Now what would you say of my honesty if II were to take advantage of a passing fancy, if it existed, to make a bargain so much to the disadvantage of this young person? I may love her as an artist with a clear conscience, and I hope without displeasing her; but when covetousness intrudes,-ah! gentlemen! I hope you all know little Peter Powell better, and honor him more than you could if he could be guilty of such a fraudulent contract." The dance was as merry as the rest of the festivities. At ten it broke up, the ladies retiring. The gentlemen went in to a nominal supper, in which elder-berry wine was the chief attraction. As this wine had not much boosy, it had been improved by the mixture of a large proportion of gin, making a queer flavor, but on the whole it was not bad to take, and we kept up the fun until midnight. What we said was too much to be printed, even if it were not mostly forgotten. But a few remarks still remain in my memory. Powell was accused of being caught at last, in spite of his Platonic and artistic fancies, that he could sport with love, without suffering the consequences. That he was in love he freely admitted; as a man of taste how could he be otherwise? and he did not doubt that, were his feelings reciprocated, he could be most happy to have by his fireside one so beautiful, and so genial in disposition. But his income, his years, and an honest regard for her interests, could not allow him to take other than a Platonic view of the case. "Platonic fol-de-rol!" exclaimed a squire. If thou lovest the girl, tell her so, and give her a chance to have thee if she likes thee, as I rather suspect she does. As to thy years, the difference is not more than is allowed. As to thy income, how 44 Fraud he he! hoo! hoo! hoo!" roared the squire. "Thoo'rt a faint heart as e'er missed fair lady. Honesty! I doon't mean to offend; but, to use respectful plainness of speech, thoo'rt not over honest to deny her the refusal of thee, an' thoo lovest as tho talkest. For the income, a hundred and fifty is enoo for a girl that has noot; and if she has summat that makes the income bigger. As for Bessy, she'll have enoo for her comfort, whether married or single, and will not sell herself; an' if she accepts thee it'll be for love, I'll warrant." pray, to be buzzed into an audacious pretension? Besides, so fine a woman would be ill-matched with a pigmy like me." "I doon't see the improprieties thou'rt striking at. An' I were thee, I'd tell the girl if I loved her, and let her say no, if she didn't love me. As for being offended with a disadvantageous offer, it is not likely in this case; for I know about the family, and know that all but merely personal qualifications are at least equal; and of those qualifications her taste can best judge Hear, hear." "Well, friend Powell, I've made too much of a company talk about thy fancy for the young lady, and so it is best that I stop; but I give thee my opinion that there is no reason why thoo should'st not take thy chance, and give the girl her chance. Her relatives and friends may advise her no, but they can't be offended." Powell talked all the autumn and winter of another excursion. He even hinted that he would go alone, if he could not get company. There was a report that he did disappear from London, soon after we returned, and he had more than his usual number of sketches at the end of the year. I never heard directly whether he followed the advice of the squire. My residence in England terminated before the next sketching season, and my correspondents were not intimate with him, and I have never heard fro n him since my return. But if I were accustomed to write for the press, I should not hesitate to say that he had united the two incomes, and become a happy man, and honestly and successfully endeavored to make Bessy as happy as if she had married a man of her own weight; for, all things considered, I think it highly probable that he did so. The alphabet, to the little child, is as the nebula to the philosopher. They both answer the great end of stimulating curiosity; and when the soul penetrates one secret, it passes with additional power to the solution of a higher, all the while receiving into itself a golden residuum, a permanent virtue, which is the best and final result. THE LESSON. Once in the fair and golden days A truth my heart has treasured well, And filled the goblet brimming full, At What sweet truth in that dream for me. length I read it fair and clear, And shrined it holy in my thought- A single drop of kindness pour, And fills that heart to running o'er! A. E. R. THE STREAM OF LIFE. BY ISADORE F. DAVIS. It is but a tiny stream at first, like the little brook among the hills, starting from some hidden spring, and gliding timidly along in the shadow till the morning sunbeams fresh from their glorious fountain, touch its crystal waters, and then, each wavelet, laughing to meet the sunbeams' kiss, goes singing onward down the hill; now rippling softly over mosses, now gurgling over pebbles; ever eager, ever joyous. Violets, blue and white, grow thickly all along its pathway. But by the brook of childhood the spring blossoms bloom only once; only once the morning sunbeams touch it with their silver wands. and scatter over its bosom their sparkling gens. Now April clouds go flitting across the sky, and the little brook moans in the shadow, while the rain-drops fall thick and fast upon it. But the cloud passes quickly by, the glad sunlight breaks through once more, and laughing with its face still wet with tears, the stream of childhood runs away. If an obstacle lies in its path, it only sins a louder song, dashes its waves more gaily, and turning its evervarying course, goes gurgling on as carelessly as before, till by-and-by with a deeper tone in its music, and an added grave in its flow, it merges into the stream of youth. Oh! the charmed, the beautiful stream of youth! with its rapid, wayward course, gliding through broad meadows with June skies overhead, and June freshness all around! Willows wave their pendent branches over it; sweet-voiced birds flit across its bosom, and dip their bright wings in its pure tide. But even the stream of youth finds not always sunny meadows. Now 'tis rushing wildly thro' a narrow defile; dark clouds hang above it, and frown fiercely on foaming, sobbing waters. The sun shines above, but its beams cannot reach the bottom of this deep mountain pass. The frightened waves dash against the sharp rocks seeking for some way of egress. Ere long the walls of the ravine seem lower, and the channel wider; stray sunbeams sift in through clifts in the rocks, touching the moaning waters with the light of hope; and at length the stream, still hurried and foaming from its recent battles, flow out into the broad sunlight again. And now its way is smooth; through green and pleasant valleys and shaded dells; enchanted islands rise upon its bosom, islands whose dream-spirits hold their mimic courts in fairy bowers, and the clear translucent waters murmur back a sweet reply to the songs of those, fairy bands. The very breezes which break the placid bosom of the stream into myriad waves, are laden with melody, and the sunlight, falling through the swaying branches of the trees dances a glad revel over it. Now dark clouds obscure the sun; the forked lightnings dart athwart the sky, and the great organ of thunder rolls out its deepest bass. The winds lash the waves into fury, and the rain pours down in heavy torrents till the sweet isles of enchantment are hidden in a veil of mist. The tempest passes, but leaves behind it traces of its passing. There are branches broken from the willows, islands flooded, and the fairest castles of the dream-spirits lie in ruins. Onward flows the stream, but the flowers the storm hath withered, bloom not again; and never, never more over the stream of life will the June skies bend and the June breezes float. The freshness of the morning is passing; May and June have scattered their blessings on the rill and the brook, and now with stronger current, and more rapid movement, youth glides on till its waters are lost in the rivers of manhood. Manhood, with its hurrying course and tumultuous flow; its turbid waves and sandy shores! The morning dew-drops have disappeared, and the golden brightness of early day has given place to the glare and heat of noon-tide. Few are the flowers that bloom by the river, and the tide is too swift and dark to reflect their fair faces on the water. It is not always flowing in the glaring light of mid-day; not always beating on barren shores. Here an i there the grass grows green; and along up close by its side, broad elms spread their shadowy arms over the heated waters which wind along in the grateful shade with chastened murmurings and calmer movement. Out from beneath the green foliage and away from the pleasant shadow the stream must pass. And now with angry dashing and deep roaring it thunders over a rocky precipice into the seething, foaming gulf below, then dashes madly along, each wave tossing white spray from its feathery crest. When the rocks and the rapids are passed, and the heavy thundering has died away to a sullen roaring, gradually in the. sky the gray clouds begin to gather, and the autumn rains pour their long continuous floods into the dark and gloomy wa ters. Again the heavens are clear, and the stream flows through fields of grain, ripe for the harvest, and among beautiful islands, not glittering with the charmed castles of dream-spirits, but tuneful with echoes from the past; from the wonderhaunted realms of childhood, and the sweet dream-land of youth. Broader, deeper, grows the river; and smoother flows the waters. The blue mists of the Indian summer tremble in the air; the golden light of sunshine tinges the quivering waves as they rise and fall on the gentle heaving tide. No rush, no hurry, no tumult now, for the stream of old age is deep and still. Dried leaves and frosted flowers, withered memories of the faded summer, float on its placid bosom. In the grand anthem that it sings. there is an under chord mournful, yet sweet, whose burden is "Passing away." With calm, majestic motion, silently, yet deepening ever, bearing on its glassy surface the reflected beauty of the sunset clouds, the stream of life moves on till its waters are hidden-not lost-in the broad, unfathomable ocean of eternity. FALLEN LEAVES. BY MRS. E. LOUISA MATHER. Just now I was sitting at the window, looking out upon the sparkling waters of the river, and watching the landscape with its trees full of leaves of varied hues, when my attention was arrested by a large yellow leaf sailing down majestically from the tree-top and lodging gently, oh! so gently, among a mass of other crispy leaves of various colors. It seemed to me an emblem of an individual life, fading, failing, falling as a leaf from the great tree of humanity its mission well accomplished, its labor fulfilled-falling all sear as it was, in the autumn of its existence, but looking forward to a spring-time of renewed activity and usefulness. Leaves, as we are, . upon humanity's wide-spreading tree, are we faithfully performing our work? Are we endeavoring to impart of our dew and sunshine to our fellows, or are we anxious only that we should spread ourselves out to our fullest extent, absorb the dew, appropriate the rain, gather in the rays of sun-light? If we are on the topmost branches, do we sneer at the smaller leaves down nearer the foot? Swaying there in our exalted position, catching sweet views of river and hill and valley, do we grow idle, or shirk our responsibilities to others? Or, being but little leaves, in a com paratively obscure place among the branches, do we look up with envy at our fellows, wishing their advantages and immunities? Do we fail to see our own privileges, while envying the lot of others? Never forget, oh, little ones, ye have your work as well as the larger ones-never forget that you derive your sustenance from the same exhaustless fount-that the well-being of each is the well-being of all-that ye are brethren and sisters, one in aim and in heart, one in the Father's all-pervading love. Yea, we all do "fade as a leaf," but as the outer garment, the body decays, the spirit plumes its wings for its eternal home, and it leaves the earth, only to enter another room of the Father's mansion, where the dear ones who have gone to the "shining shore," are congregated and are await ing us. There is nothing melancholy in the fall of the leaf, as we think of the renewing spring-time-there is nothing melancholy in what we call death, but which most truly is "transition"-leaving the worn out mechanism of the body to mingle, in its resting-place, with congenial elements from which it originated, and freeing the aspiring spirit of impediments and obstructions to its progress and activity in its ap propriate sphere of being. On! it is then like an uncaged bird, soaring aloft through a purer air, a diviner existence, yet never ignoring the ties of consanguinity and af fection, originating in this life, never ceasing to bathe in the fountains of love, never ceasing to feel an interest in those left behind on this earth-shore; but watching and waiting, guiding and guarding them ever, until, they too, enter new fields of being, and have cast off the material which encased them here. How silent and imperceptible these life-changes! Summer succeeds to spring, winter to autumn, and so our lives flow on in their labor and rest, sunshine and darkness, until like fallen leaves, we are gathered, all that pertains to the mortal, in the bosom of our dear mother earth, but the enfranchised spirit rejoices in its eternal spring-time of youth and beauty, joy, rest, fruition, and progression. East-Haddam, Conn. |