Fern Leaves from Fanny's Portfolio, series one (Auburn: Derby & Miller, 1853)
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THE CROSS AND THE CROWN.
Are there no martyrs of whom the world never hears? Are there no triumphs save where one can grasp earth's laurel crown? See you none who rise early and sit up late, and turn with a calm, proud scorn from a gilded fetter to honest toil? Pass you never, in your daily walks, slight forms, with calm brows, and mild eyes, whose whole life has been one prolonged self-struggle? Lip, cheek and brow tell you no tale of the spirit's unrest!
The "broad road" is passing fair to look upon. The coiled serpent is not visible 'mid its luxurious foliage. The soft breeze fans the cheek wooingly, laden with the music of happy, careless idlers. Youth, and bloom, and beauty,--ay, even silver hairs, are there! No tempest lowers; the sky is clear and blue. What stays yonder slender foot? Why pursue so courageously the thorny, rugged, stumbling path? The eye is bright; the limbs are round and graceful; the blood flows warm and free; the shining hair folds softly away from a pure, fair brow; there are sweet voices yonder to welcome; there is an
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inward voice to hush; there are thrilling eyes there, to bewilder! What stays that slender foot?
Ah! the foot-prints of Calvary's sufferer are in that "narrow path!" That youthful head bends low and unshrinkingly to meet its "crown of thorns." The "star in the east" shines far above those rugged heights, on which its follower reads,--"To him that overcometh, will I give to eat of the Tree of Life."
Dear reader, for a brief day the Cross for uncounted ages the Crown!
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LILLA, THE ORPHAN.
It was a rough, dark, unsightly looking old farmhouse. The doors were off the hinges, panes of glass were broken in the windows, the grass had overgrown the little gravel path, and the pigs and poultry went in and out the door as if they were human. Farmer Brady sat sunning his bloated face on the door-step, stupid from the effects of the last debauch; his ungainly, idle boys were quarrelling which should smoke his pipe, and two great romps of girls, with uncombed locks and tattered clothes, were swinging on the gate in front of the house.
Everything within doors was in keeping with the disorder that reigned without, save a young, fair girl, who sat at the low window, busily sewing on a coarse garment. Her features were regular and delicate, her hands and feet, small and beautifully formed, and, despite her rustic attire, one could see, with a glance, that she was a star that had wandered from its sphere.
"I say, Lilla," said one of the hoydens, bounding into the kitchen, and pulling the comb out of Lilla's head as she bent over her work, shedding the long, brown hair around her slight figure, till her white shoulders and
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arms were completely veiled,; "I say, make haste about that gown. Ma said you should finish it by noon, and you don't sew half fast enough."
Lilla's cheeks flushed, and the small hands wandered through the mass of hair in the vain attempt to confine it again, as she said, meekly, "Won't you come help me, Betsey? My head aches sadly, to-day."
"No, I won't. You think, because you are a lady, that you can live here on us, and do nothing for a living; but you won't; and you are no better than Peggy and I, with your soft voice, and long hair, and doll face." So saying, the romp went back again to her primitive gymnasium, the gate.
Lilla's tears flowed fast, as her little fingers flew more nimbly; and by afternoon her task was completed, and she obtained permission from her jailers to take a walk. It was a joy to Lilla to be alone with nature. It was a relief to free herself from vulgar sights and sounds; to exchange coarse taunts, and rude jests, and harsh words, for the song of birds, the ripple of the brook, and the soft murmur of the wind as it sighed through the tall tree-tops.
Poor Lilla!--with a soul so tuned to harmony, to be condemned to perpetual discord! Through the long, bright summer days, to drudge at her ceaseless toil, at the bidding of those harsh voices. At night, to creep into her little bed, but to recall tearfully a dim vision of
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childhood;--a gentle, wasted form; a fair, sweet face growing paler day by day; large, lustrous, loving eyes that still followed her by day and night; then, a confused recollection of a burial,--afterwards, a dispute as to her future home, ending in a long, dismal journey. Since then, scanty meals, the harsh blow, coarse clothing, taunting words and bitter servitude; and then she would sob herself to sleep, as she asked, "Must it always be thus? Is there none to care for me?"
The golden days of summer faded away; the leaves put on their dying glory; the soft wind of the Indian summer lifted gently the brown tresses from Lilla's sweet face. She still took her accustomed walks, but it was not alone. A stranger had taken up his residence at the village inn. He had met Lilla in her rambles, and his ready ingenuity soon devised a self-introduction. He satisfied himself that she claimed no affinity to the disorderly inmates of the farm-house. He drew from her her little history, and knew that she was an orphan, unprotected in her own sweet innocence, save by Him who guards us all.
And so the dewy, dim, twilight witnessed their meetings, and the color came to the pale cheek of Lilla, and her eyes grew wondrously beautiful, and her step was as light as her heart, and harsh household words fell to the ground like arrows short of the mark; for Lilla was happy. In the simplicity of her guileless heart, how should
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she know that Vincent lived only for the present? That she was to him but one of many beautiful visions, admired to-day, forgotten tomorrow? It was such a joy to be near him, to feel herself appreciated, to know that she was beloved!
And so time passed on;--but their meetings had not been unnoticed. Rough threats were uttered to Lilla, if they were continued, for she had made herself too useful to be spared. All this was communicated to her lover, as they met again at the old trysting-place; and then, as she leaned trustingly on his arm, Vincent whispered in her ear words whose full import she understood not. Slowly the truth revealed itself! Her slight figure grew erect, as she withdrew from his supporting arm;--her soft eye flashed with indignation, and the man of the world stood abashed in the presence of innocence! A moment--and he was alone, beneath the holy stars!
That night Lilla fled her home. She could scarce be more desolate or unprotected. The next day found her, foot-sore and weary, in the heart of the great city, startled and trembling like the timid deer fleeing from its pursuers.
Lilla knew that she was beautiful. She read it in the lengthened gaze of the passers-by. Friendless, houseless and beautiful! God help thee, Lilla!
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In a dark, unhealthy garret sat Lilla! Her face, still lovely, was pale as marble. Her fingers flew with lightning rapidity over the coarse work that yielded her only a shelter. But there were angel faces,--unseen by her,--smiling approval; and she could clasp those small hands, when the day's toil was over, and say, "Our Father," with the innocent heart of childhood; and invisible ones had charge to guard her footsteps, and "He who feedeth the ravens" gave her "daily bread."
One day she took her little bundle, as usual, to the shop of her employers; and, while waiting for the small pittance due, her eye fell upon an advertisement "for a housekeeper," in a newspaper before her. But how could she obtain it, without recommendation, without friends? She resolved to try. Her little hand trembled nervously as she pulled the bell of the large, handsome house. She was preceded by the servant into the library, where sat a fine-looking man, in the prime of life. He looked admiringly upon the shrinking, modest face and form before him. She told him, in a few simple words, her history.
The eccentric old bachelor paused for a moment, then taking her hand, he said, "I advertised for a housekeeper, but I'm more in need of a wife. Will you marry me?"
And so Lilla became a happy, honored wife. And
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if a flush pass over her sweet face when she meets Vincent in the circle of her husband's acquaintances, it is from no lingering feeling of affection for the treacherous heart, that held in such light estimation the sacred name of Orphan.
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OBSERVING THE SABBATH.
"And ye shall call the Sabbath a delight, Holy of the Lord, honorable."
"Don't accept the invitation sent you to that Sunday excursion, Harry."
"What a solemn phiz, Fan!--why not? The better the day the better the deed."
"My dear coz, if the fourth commandment has no restraining power, then avoid it for its vulgarity. Depend upon it, it is the more coarse and unrefined portion of the community who outrage the feelings of church-going people by Sabbath desecration. Let good taste deter you from it, Harry, if I must resort to so weak an argument, when so many better ones are on my side."
"Well;--but, coz, I have already given my word that I will accept."
"Break it, then;--you owe allegiance to a friend who has a prior claim."
"Now, Fan, if I would do it for anything, I would do
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it for you; but, do you know, I don't believe in Sunday, and in going to meeting?"
"Your mother did, Harry."
"Yes--I--know," said he, thoughtfully; "and, strange as it may seem to you, that is the reason I don't. When I was a 'little shaver,' Sunday was the gloomiest day in the calendar, to me. From sunrise to sunset, we were scarcely allowed to wink. As soon as we were dressed, we were seated in a row, with our Bibles, catechisms and hymn-books. Even religious newspapers were prohibited; and we should as soon have thought of dancing a hornpipe on the pulpit stairs, as stepping over the threshold of the door, except to church. There we sat, repeating hymns, creeds and commandments, till the bell summoned us to a change of scene; and he was a very bold urchin who dared stop to pluck a tempting daisy or buttercup by the roadside. Our patriarchal pastor was fond of disentangling knotty theological snarls, and diving beyond his depth, in the doctrines of election and total depravity. Our childish minds refused to follow in those labyrinthine mazes, though we had sundry pulls by the ears, and raps on the knuckles, by way of reminders. Amid all this 'strong meat,' the 'milk for babes,' ordered by the infant-loving Saviour, was quite overlooked.
"Our Sunday dinner was looked forward to as a sort of juvenile 'millennium;' though our inclination to pro-
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long it indefinitely was unceremoniously cut short by sending us back to our little chairs and big catechisms. The advent of a vagrant fly, or profane mosquito, was hailed with an internal thanksgiving, as affording a convenient respite for the study of anatomy and natural history; stray leaves of 'Tom Thumb,' 'Mother Goose,' and 'Sinbad the Sailor,' occasionally found their way between the pages of more doctrinal reading; and the soporific tendency of a second sermon from our argumentative pastor, bade defiance to every attempt of our vigilant parents to keep us from migrating to the land of Nod.
"With what anxiety and impatience we watched for the disappearance of 'Old Sol' behind the hills! What a welcome release for overtasked spirits, what stretching of wearied limbs, as his last golden beam was lost in the twilight! With what a feeling of complete disenthralment we threw ourselves on the grass, beneath the old apple-tree, or explored the meadow behind the house, or drove 'old Brindle' home from pasture! And when we crept into our little beds at night, what sorrowful discussions we held upon that sentence in father's prayer, that announced 'Heaven to be one eternal Sabbath!' O, coz, Sunday was made a weariness in my boyhood!"
Very true, thought I, sorrowfully, as he gayly waved an adieu. The cord was drawn too tightly, and this
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is the rebound! And yet it is an old-fashioned error; caution points with her finger to the other extreme, at the present day. Discretion and wisdom mark out a middle path.
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THE PROPHET'S CHAMBER.
My grandfather's house was, to all intents and purposes, a ministerial tavern;--lacking the sign. But though "entertainment for man and beast" was not written upon the door-posts, yet one might read it, in very legible characters, in the faces of its master and mistress, and in the very aspect of the mansion itself. At least, so the travelling world, especially the clerical part of it, seemed to think; for almost every steamboat, stage and railroad car brought them a visitor. They dropped their carpet-bags in the hall with the most perfect certainty of a welcome; and if the inmates were out, the fire was not, and the boot-jack and slippers of "Brother Clapp" were in the same old place. You should have seen the "Prophet's Chamber,"--that never, within my recollection, was unoccupied more than time enough "to clear it up,"--with its old-fashioned bedstead and hangings, its capacious old arm-chair, its manifold toilet accommodations, its well-furnished, writing-desk, its large fire-place filled up,--not with a black, gloomy, funereal-looking pillar of a stove, with an isinglass window about as big as a ninepence, mocking the
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chilled traveller with its muffled blaze,--but great, stalwart logs of wood, laid over the large, old-fashioned andirons, that stood guard, like two brazen sentinels, over the bright flame that flickered and flashed, and leaped forth exultingly, lighting up the faces of the saints and martyrs that hung upon the wall, from the time of John Rogers down to the last poor missionary that was ate up by the savages in our own day. There was a very orthodox atmosphere in that room, you may be sure; and when my grandmother used to send me up,--then a little girl,--with some dainty morsel, prepared by her own skilful hands for the "good minister," I used to stop at the door till I imagined my little, round face was drawn down to the proper length, before I dared show it on the other side. How glad I was when that dyspeptic Mr. Ney's visit was at an end, with his "protracted" walkings up and down, and across the floor, and his sighs and groans, and "O dear me's!" and how grandmother used to shake her head at me, and pity him, with his "big family, and large parish, and small salary." And when he went home, how full she used to stuff that old carpet-bag of his, which I used to think must have been made of India rubber, for it always held just as much as she had to put in it, more or less; and how I used to wonder if my heart was as "awful hard, and dreadful wicked," as he used to tell me! Poor Mr. Ney! I understand it better now; it was disease, not religion, that made him so
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gloomy. His sky was always lead color; no flowers bloomed under his feet; his ears heard nothing but "the thunder and lightning;" his eyes saw only the "thick cloud upon the mount."
But what a sunshine brightened the Prophet's Chamber when dear Mr. Temple came to stay with us! I used to think our Saviour must have such a smile when he said, "Suffer the little children to come unto me." How low and musical was his voice! How gently he would lay his dear hand upon my head, when I stooped to put on his slippers, and say, "'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me,'--God bless you, my daughter!" And when the excitement of preaching brought one of those cruel attacks of nervous headache, what a pleasure it was, when I stood up on the little cricket behind his chair, to pass my little hand slowly across his broad, pale forehead, till the long silken lashes drooped heavily upon his cheek, and he sank into a soothing slumber! How softly I would tiptoe back to my little seat by the fire-place, to watch for his waking, to gaze upon his sweet, quiet face, and wonder if he would n't look like that in heaven! And, then, proud and happy I was, when he awoke refreshed, to be beckoned to my old place on his knee, and to hear the pretty story of the "Little Syrian Maid," or "Abraham and Isaac," or the "Resurrection of Lazarus,"--possessing some new charm for me every time he related them! And how
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soft and liquid his large, dark eyes grew, and how tremulous his low voice, as he told me of "the Crucifixion!" And how I used to think if I could always live with dear Mr. Temple I should never be a naughty little girl again in my life--never! never!
And years afterwards, when I had grown a tall girl, and he chanced to come to preach in the place where I was sent to a boarding- school, he selected me from a hundred romping girls, and, laying his dear hand again on my head, said to my teacher, "This is one of my lambs!" was n't that a proud and happy day for me?
But to return to my grandfather's. You should have been there "Anniversary Week!" "Such a many ministers!" as little Charley used to say. How all of us children gave up our little bedrooms, and huddled, promiscuously, in one room! What nice things grandmother was getting ready, weeks and weeks beforehand! What appetites they did have, and how bright grandmother's face shone, the more they ate and drank and the more they made themselves at home! And how pleasant it was to sit in the corner with my bit of gingerbread, and hear them talk! And how I used to wonder if they really were all "brothers"--as they called each other when they spoke;--and what they all meant by calling my grandmother "Sister Clapp." Well-a-day!--years have flown by, since then. Dear grandmother and kind Mr. Temple sleep quietly in the church-yard. Sacrilegious
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feet have trod the "Prophet's Chamber." Poor, gloomy Mr. Ney is walking the New Jerusalem, and a new song is put in his mouth,--the song of Canaan. "Anniversary week" is not now what it used to be then. People's hearts and houses have contracted; and, growing "forgetful to entertain strangers," they miss the presence of the "angel that cometh unawares."
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LILIES OF THE VALLEY.
To the unknown friend who sent me a bouquet of "lilies of the valley":--
You dream not, as the soft wind stirs those little bells on their delicate stems, that my heart is filled with a sad pleasure. Each one has a voice for my heart; in each cup there is a history.
They bring before me a little form, fragile and sweet as themselves. I hear again the soft fall of little tripping feet. Large, brown, spiritual eyes gaze upward into mine. A cloud of shining hair shades a brow too holy for earth. Again, as in the olden time, I wander with the clasp of a little hand in cool, mossy paths; for that fair young head I bind wreaths of these sweet lilies. Silently I watch with her for the stealing forth of evening's first star. The gray dawn, the sultry noon, the solemn midnight, find us side by side. I tremble when I look into those deep eyes. As childhood's years pass on, no taint of earth comes over that pure heart. The passerby gazes, and turns, and looks again, and marvels whence comes the spell which chains his eye to that little face.
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Gray-haired wisdom smiles sadly, and says the dewdrop will exhale.
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When the careless feet which lightly tread the sacred paths of Mount Auburn, have left its quiet sleepers to the hush of evening, then go with me; and we will sit down together, on that mossy seat under the hawthorn; and, with only the holy stars for listeners, I will tell you how gently that little hand pushed aside the cup of life;--of that long, last earnest look which was bent on me, when the tongue was powerless to speak its love;--of the gradual flickering and fading out of life's little taper. Then you shall retrace with me a rough and thorny path of trial, which those little feet were spared from treading; and we will kneel beside that marble cross, and say, from full hearts, "It is well with the child!"
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GRANDFATHER GLEN.
The driving snow and hail beat mercilessly again the windows; the piercing north wind seemed to search the very bones. Shivering pedestrians were seen hurrying through the streets, tightly grasping their umbrellas rendered almost useless by the fury of the storm. Robust men turned their collars about their ears, and snapped their frost-bitten fingers, and stamped their feet to promote circulation; dainty dames, muffled to the chin in costly furs, were to be seen through the closed window of carriages.
It was a day to bless God for warmth, and food, and think shudderingly of the houseless poor. It was Thanksgiving day,--known throughout New England as a day of unlimited feasting and rejoicing, warm heart-greetings and glad memories. At the windows of elegant mansions, where rarest flowers blossomed, and birds warbled, as if in midsummer, where heavy silken curtains, and warm fires, bade defiance to the chill blast, were seen happy faces and graceful forms, clad in tints rivalling autumn's gayest livery.
In such a mansion as this, around a daintily spread
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tables, were seated Mr. Glen's wife and family,--children and children's children. The little, high chair, in which, regularly, sat a new baby every year, had been duly placed at the table, and its little, curly-headed occupant, in scarlet dress and white apron, looked the picture of childish happiness. Sons and daughters, in manly beauty and womanly grace, made the scene fair to look upon.
A servant entered, with a note for Mr. Glen. As he read, the color mounted to his temples, but, shaking his hand angrily, and saying, "There is no answer," he addressed himself again to the pleasures of the table. It was from his truant daughter, Ellen, who, years before, had clandestinely given her heart and hand to a youthful lover. Mr. Glen had said "he would never see her more." All his household were forbidden to see or speak to her.
"Think of her as one dead," said he, "and never let her name be mentioned in my presence."
Everything that could remind him of her he caused to be removed from his sight. The key was turned upon the room she occupied; there lay her guitar, with the blue ribbon, that had so often rested on her fair neck; there were her work-box, drawing materials, a faded bunch of flowers, dainty little slippers, fairy robes, and the mirror which had so often reflected back the form that had lent such a grace to them all.
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Her father had said she was "dead to him," and he tried to think so; and yet, he would start nervously at a household tone, or a remembered strain of music, or a soft footfall; and ever, in his dreams, a sweet, pale face looked tearfully out from amid its golden tresses, and a soft voice plead musically for pardon; but the morrow's sun found him colder, sterner, more unyielding than ever.
In vain the faithful wife of his youth, around whose brow silver threads were twining, plead with a mother's love for her child. In vain did the moistened eyes of brother and sister add their silent eloquence.
And there he sat, at his Thanksgiving board;--he had just refused her last request. For him the viands had now lost their flavor. He could only see before him shivering forms and haggard faces.
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In an upper chamber, in a shattered, rickety building, lay a man in the last stage of consumption. At his bedside sat a sweet, pale creature, upon whose face sorrow, more than time, had left its traces. At her knee stood a noble boy of six years, striving with his tiny hand to wipe away the tears that were falling thick and fast among his clustering locks. Through the broken panes of glass the snow was forcing its way; the little handful of fire on the hearth was fast dying out, and the sick man's hollow cough echoed fearfully through the desolate
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chamber, as he shiveringly drew around his emaciated limbs the scanty bed-clothing.
"Don't cry, Ellen," said he; "when I am gone, your father will relent."
"No, no," sobbed his wife, as she laid her pale cheek to his; "no, no! it must be that he will pity us now."
As she spoke, her father's refusal was handed to her.
"I told you so," said the sick man, groaning, as he turned his face to the wall.
Ellen stood still a moment; then calling her boy to her side, while her face grew ashy pale, she parted the rich curls from his forehead, and wrapping about him her own tattered mantle, she sent him forth, in the storm, like Noah's dove from the ark.
Mr. Glen sat at his table, nervously twisting his napkin between his fingers, absorbed in thought. The storm, that raged so fearfully without, was emblematical of the conflicting feelings in his breast. He turned his head towards the opening door, and before him stood a little creature, in whose curly locks the drifting snow still lingered, his cheeks reddened with intense cold, and his little toes and fingers peeping out, blue and benumbed, from their scanty covering.
"Where's my Grandfaver Glen?" said the child, as he looked innocently and fearlessly round upon the group.
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Mr. Glen gazed at him, as if spell-bound. There were Ellen's ringlets; those clear, blue eyes and silvery tones were hers.
The child advanced and laid his little, benumbed hand upon his grandfather's knee. Nature could no longer dissemble. The old man pressed him to his breast, laid his silver locks upon his sunny head, chafed his shivering limbs, and offered him food.
"No--no," said the child, refusing to eat, "I want some for poor mamma, she's so hungry, and papa is dying, and--"
The little creature, overcome with excitement, sobbed as if his heart were breaking.
A few moments found Mr. Glen and his wife, with Charley for a guide, on the way to their suffering children. A servant accompanied them, carrying wine and refreshments. They threaded the dark alley, climbed the rickety stairway, preceded by Charley, whose eyes sparkled with delight. Throwing wide open the door of the miserable room, he said,
"Wake up, mamma; wake up, dear papa;--here's something to make you well."
"Merciful God!" said Mr. Glen, "we are too late," as his eye rested on the lifeless forms of his daughter and her husband.
In vain he listened to hear them breathe; trouble, sorrow, cold and famine had too surely done their work.
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With bitter tears they laid together in the tomb those who, even in death, could not be divided.
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The April tears of childhood are soon dried, and little Charley is now the sunbeam in the house of "Grandfaver Glen."
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THE WIDOW'S PRAYER.
"Something to moisten my lips," said the restless sufferer, as he turned his head languidly towards his widowed mother. The cool, refreshing draught was handed him, and a soft hand was laid on his throbbing temples, and the anxious mother turned away her head, that the quivering lip and falling tear might not distress her boy. He was her only child; and, through a tedious and sickly infancy, she had patiently endured wearisome days and wakeful nights, until at last he stood before her with cheeks mantling with the huge of health, and limbs strong and graceful in youthful beauty. No music was so sweet to her as his ringing laugh; and, when he slept, he would creep to his bedside, as the bright eyes lay veiled under their long, sweeping lashes, and the thick curls were carelessly tossed from his white temples; and happy tears fell from her eyes as the lost husband of her youth was again restored to her in the person of her sleeping boy. And she would picture a long, happy future, a quiet old age; and for him, honor and renown, and fame; and his children should climb her knee. But now--there he laid! "there was but a step between him
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and death;" the bright eye faded, the features sharpened by disease, the round limbs wasted and shrunken.
And then to that house of mourning came the holy man of God. On his bended knee, at the bedside of the dying boy, fervently he prayed that "if it be God's will the life so dear might be spared." "If it be God's will?--it must be God's will," said the insubmissive mother, as she rose sobbing from her knees. And "the Highest" heard her prayer!
The sun shone brightly and cheerfully into the sick room. The hue of health took the place of pallor on the face of the invalid; the locks, that were damp with the dew of agony, grew crisp and glossy; the bright eye sparkled; the old familiar smile played upon the red lips; the dainty morsels, prepared by the hand of the happy mother, were partaken of with the keen relish of returning health. He was rescued!--he was saved! The gift was accepted, but the Giver was forgotten, and the Great Physician went unthanked. And so the boy grew up to manhood;--and his slightest word was law, and the glance of his eye was a command, to the mother who bore him; and she, who should have received obedience, rendered it; and to her own child she was a willing slave!
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The governor of ---- sat in his drawing-room, surrounded by a pleasant party of friends. A woman
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begged an immediate audience. She was old and feeble, and travel-stained; her gray locks floated unchecked over her furrowed temples. Panting, exhausted, she could only stammer forth, "For God's sake, a pardon for my only son, condemned to die!" The man relented, but the judge was inexorable! "Justice must have its due." Large drops of agony started from those furrowed temples. Clasping his knee, she cried, "A reprieve, then!--have mercy!--a reprieve!" It was a vain prayer; for ere the morning sun should rise, the head that had slumbered so often on her breast would be laid by rough hands in a dishonored grave; and then, too late, she knew, that not in mercy, but in wrath, that impious prayer had been answered,--"It must be God's will!"