Together
page: 0Advertisement (TitlePage) [View Page 0Advertisement (TitlePage) ]NOVELS BY THE AUTIOR OF THS VOLUME.- '7 MARGuAS;ITE'S FRAUD. (In Press.) NEPENTEE. Price $1.50 each. TOGETHER. Nobel. BY THE AUTHOR OF "NEPENTHE," OLIE"ETC. "No mention shall be made of coral or of pearls: for the price of wisdom is above rubies." NEW YORK: CARLETON, PUBLISHER, 413 BROAD WAY. MDCCCLXV. page: 0[View Page 0] Entered according to Act of Congress -in the year 1864, by GEO. W. CARLETON, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York. TRIMMED WITH HOPE AND MANNED WITH FEARS, THS BARQUE OF MINE SAILS FORTH ALONE, INTO THE DANGEROUS SEA OF FICTION. I WRITE UPON ITS PROW THE NAME OF NELSON, WISEST OF COUNSELLORS, MOST FAITHFUL OF FRIENDS, KINDEST OF BROTHERS; AND BENEATH HIS, AS UNDER THE LOVING SHADOW OF A GREAT SOUL, MY TWO DARLINGS, ERNEST AND ALICE. WHETHER THE LITTLE BARQUE BE MOORED AT LAST IN THE WORLD'S HEART, OR LOST ON ITS STORMY ATLANTIC, THESE DEAR NAMES, EVER ENWREATHED WITH MEMORY'S BRIGHTEST AUREOLA, SHALL GO FORTH WITH MINE, TOGETHER. o page: 0 (Table of Contents) [View Page 0 (Table of Contents) ] CONTENT S. CHAPTER I. Page SOMETHNG MAY HAPPEN ................. .............. 9 CHAPTER II. MY SHP COMES BACK FROM SEA *.****...*............. 18 CHAPTER III. ACROSS THE "WAY ........................ ............. 27 CHAPTER IV. 4WHATSOEVER"......^........... 36 CHAPTER V. "COSMOS"' * ..... . . ......... * ****** -*42 CHAPTER VI. CONSCIENCE VERSUS DREAMS . .......................... 50 CHAPTER VII. THE PILLAR OF FIRE .................................. 55 CHAPTER VIII. DISCOVERIES IN TERRESTRIAL SPACES 2*. . a . a . .. f CHAPTER IX. "A COLD AND STARRY EVENING-"* ....................... 66 CHAPTER X. ERNEST HEART ....... ......................... " CHAPTER XI. 1NOBLE IS MAD-. **ae ..e eeeeee ae r e-- *oee .. 81 CHAPTER XII. GLEE AND GLOOM - eli e -... e et.. e . co-e.... 84 CHAPTER XIII. COMNG BACK TO LIFE 90 CHAPTER XIV. "ONLY LUKE IS WITH ME" ......... ' * 95 CHAPTER XV. THE' DovE IN THE DOVE N THE HEART ........................ 103 CHAPTER XVI. THuE INEVITABLE G........... .... . . . 115^ page: viii (Table of Contents) -9[View Page viii (Table of Contents) -9] - - CONTENTS. CHAPTtR XVII. Page THE BCAPING TABBY, OR BROWNING AND BLUNDERS . 125' CHAPTER XVnII. SEVENTY-SIX AND SIXTY-ONE **..... ................... 134 CHAPTER XIX. A LEAF FROM SORROW'S GREENWOOD . .... ........ .... 140 CHAPTER XX., "BANS PADEa"s-- . ... .. . . .... . . ' 150 CHAPTER XXI. GONw E .... v.... .. .......... .... .. . .. ......e... . . . 155 CHAPTER XXHL AUREOLA . ... . ^ . .. . . . . . . 163 CHAPTER XXIIl. BOY-WORLD -.8*- * * *... . *..*....*. ***1.... ........ . * 0* 181 CHAPTER XXIV. HTHERTO AND HEREAFTER* .. * . . . . . * . . . 187 CHAPTER XXV, MARAH ............... .... ........*....... ..... -...... 190 CHAPTER XXVI, THE SMLE-WREATH ^ : *'* 198 I- CHAPTER XXVII. TABBYTHA FELIS.. ..... * ......... . . .. ... 209: { CHAPTER XXVIII. WHAT ARTHUR SAYS* ..... 214 CHAPTER XXIX. "OVE'S PALrIMPSEST * * * a* * * - * * a* . * i a 217', CHAPTER XXX THE BRIDGE OF SIGHSe. .... i. *.; .. .. .. .. ....8.... 224 CHAPTER XXXI. THE SHADOW CROWNED a; * .. - ' o i . *.. . X . * - .* 237 CHAPTER -XXXII. THE LAST OF EARTH *..**. ii *o . X** . * X* 248 CHAPTER XXXIIl.. IRDENHURDEN i ... **. * ..*... ......... . 252 TOGETHER. CHAPTER I. SOMETHNG MAY HAPPEN. "The eye also which saw him shall see him no more." - JOB xx. 9. "CHLD, child! don't say any more about that daguerreotype; there are daguerreotypes enough now ; there's a shower of them fallen over the country. You can't go into a tenement-house anywhere in the city -but you 'll see pictures of uncles and uncles- in-law, cousins and cousins' cousins, with Patrick's big boys and Michael's little girls, whole rows of them, standing wide open in their dingy, dilapidated cases, stark, staring, and stupid." "But that is n't it, father. I don't care if every table in every pauper's house, or every parlor in Fifth Avenue, or all the win- dows in Broadsway, are full of them, if they came down on me in showers,--I want yours. It would be as wre and precious to me as if it were the first likeness ever tal n, the only one in the world; - and you never, will let me have it. You make all kinds of excuses: the barber has cut your hair too short, -or you've a bad cold, or you are too thin or too fleshy, or' there's a scratch on your face, or you must wait for a new suit of black;- besides, father, what if something should happen?" "Happen, child? - appen? Nothing will happen, if we are honest, and cheerful, and well." I stand by my father, and putting my hand on his forehead, twine round my fingers that lock of hair that always curls- so beautifully on his right temple. I look into his face earnestly, and I say,- "Well, father, honest people, and cheerfulpeople, and well peo- ple, do meet with accidents." "Yes, yes, child; they break their necks, bump their heads, page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] 10- TOGETHER. put out their eyes, - and then I might have the small-pox to- morrow and mar my beauty forever, and the world would have no clear trace of me; no single vestige would exist of my grand and wonderful creation. You could n't find another nose like mine, or such a pair of gray-green eyes anywhere." '"You know, father, there's no gray or green light in your eyes; they are as pure. and deep a blue as I ever saw; but, - father, it is the only request you ever refused me,"- and tears came into my eyes. "Well, well, child, if you will make an old fool of me, you can; but don't take it to heart so, don't cry. I 'll go to-morrow, you may filigree up my hair as much as you like. I 'll sleep, if you wish, all night with my head in a box of pomade, with a wreath of curl-papers around my forehead. I 'll wear the finest suit of black, and put on my best expression, and sit and look in that box. If they 'll only give me something poetic, aesthetic, romantic, or pathetic to look at - anything but that box; if I smile, I grin like an idiot, and if I try to assume a grave, digni- fied, manly expression, I look 'grand, gloomy, and peculiar.' I hate that be-a-good-boy spell that comes over me; I feel just as I did at the first party I went to, when I did n't know where to put myy hands, or how to hold -my head, or where to hide my feet." "You need n't look into that box, father; you shall have that beautiful picture of ' Morning among -the Tropics' to look at. I bought it at Goupil's this morning; you liked it so much. But will you really go to-morrow, father?" "Yes, yes, child, if it don't rain; you shall have an imperial if you wish, an imperial photograph as large as one side of the library,-and vignettes, an infinite series of them.' I'll have the business done up thorough for once," and my father took his purse out of his pocket and handed me three five-dollar gold pieces, and said, "Here child, take these and get some pictures framed to suit you. You can have one for each corner 'of the room; one can hang on the north side for cold weather, one on the south for warm, one east for cloudy,-one west for clear, and if any one should ask you if that is the remnant of your father's gallery, you cap say, yes, they are all your father's pictures." I don't keep the gold pieces, though I hold them a moment in my hand. I always like to look at gold, it is such a tempting, fascinating combination of the useful and the beautiful. I hold them in my hand a moment, and then I say, "No, father, I'll TOGETHER. " not take them to-night, I don't want the care of them; you can give them to me to-morrow." I was sixteen; of-course I wore long dresses, and my hair was done up just like any young lady's, and I was not so very little either; but I suppose my father always would call me child. If I lived to be fifty, I would seem like a child to him. I shall be so delighted to have a good picture of my father. This pic- ture-taking is the only thing about which he has ever been per- sistent, positive, or stubborn. He always said he never would be taken; I had been teasing him about it for four years. He had a good head, features beautifully irregular and irregularly beautiful, and a noble, genial expression. I thought just how the picture would look, I knew I hould be so fond and proud of it. I would n't have him brush his hair so stiff and smooth just before he sat down; it should n't. have that set, precise look. I want it to look just as it does when he takes his hat off after a walk,- careless and graceful, like a little forest of hair with its glossy waves. Nobody would say there was no expression in hair, if they saw my father when lie lifts his hat and comes in a little tired, with that glow on his cheek and that grace about the waves of his hair that nlo comb or brush ever gave, with that one little curl that looks like a chiselled marble wave, over his right temple. There was a weather-vane in our yard I looked out that night. A few fleecy clouds floated in the west; the vane seemed veering between south and west; the air was warm and sultry. It will be fair to-morrow, I think, as I lean my elbow on the window-sill. What a beautiful world this is; there's no use in all this prosy whining about disappointment and sorrow and vanity. It is June, and my heart is full of June; life seems all June; fresh roses of joy are just bursting forth in starry, fadeless clusters. My father seldom sings, but to-night I hear his voice. I go out into the hall a moment to listen; he is singing in a sweet, plaintive tone. "( A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which seek through the world is ne'er met with elsewhere. , Home, home, sweet, sweet home." I never hear those words sung without thinking of Howard Payne, their author, wh6 never had a home; he was a wanderer, and died in a foreign land. The strain always sounds to me like the plaintive notes of a bird ever on the wing longing for rest; the last words my father sings in such a clear, full, rich voice, that tears come into my eyes. My father does n't sing any more. page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] 12 - TOGETHER. I go back to the window and think again. I wish, I say, as I look out and see the clustering roses like constellations of snowy stars twinkling faintly out in the shadowy night, and I breathe the soft fragrance stealing in my window, - I wish it could be always June as I hum over this little song: "June to-day has' been unbinding All the beauty of her hair ; The pure fragrance of her tresses Floats through all the golden air, And the greenness of her garments Lies about us everywhere. "One would guess that late last evening While the sky hung calm and blue An unlooked-for wind had shaken All the stars in clusters through, And had bathed the sleeping gardens In a shower of golden dew." I pause a moment, for I hear a voice in the window next to mine ;-the air is so still that I can hear the words as they mingle with the murmur of the fountain near. "Oh! remember That the beauty which doth lie Like a golden dream about thee, Like a dream will soon pass by." ,What a beautiful word that word dream is, I say as I finish the song. "Still I sit as I were dreaming, Till the soft, melodious tune Of the waters to a murmur Low and liquid, seems to swoon; In the spirit of thy beauty Is my soul baptized, O June!" I sit up quite late writing some notes, and about half-past ten I put up my writing-desk and go into my mother's room. My father is asleep; how beautiful he looks to me; he is handsome and good. I stoop down and kiss the forehead. I did n't kiss him good-night, and I never go to sleep without a good-night kiss. I go back to my room, and soon fall asleep. I dream of a whole gallery of pictures, and each face was my father's, and all so strangely idealized and beautified; and then all at once the walls were bare, the pictures were gone, and I heard a voice say, "It is raised in glory." I was awakened just then byv a heavy crash, aloud rolling peal of thunder. I was struck byvlightning three years ago, and ever since I am timid and alarmed in a thunder- storm I arose hastily, threw on my double dress, hurried into O ... ] TOGETHER. 13 the front chamber where my father slept, rolled up the lounge close beside the bed, and lay down on it hiding my face in the pillows; there were successive peals of thunder, and the sky seemed one sea of lurid lightning. As the vivid flashes died ,.away and the loud reports lulled, I lay awake a long time, and at last fell asleep. I must have slept two hours, for I heard the old clock in the hall strike one, and I opened my eyes. I saw a man standing by the bureau with a pocket-book in his hand. "What are you doing," said!. "Speak or stiir, and you are dead," said he, in a hoarse menac- ing whisper. As the man turned again to look into the open drawer, -touched my father's arm gently; he arose, sat up in bed; - the man fired, the ball went through my father's head just be- low the right eye, and he never moved or spoke more. Morning came at last, and the picture of my poor, marred, murdered father was all I had left. It is a picture burned into my soul, and I haunt, I torture, I almost madden myself with the thought. If I had n't wakied my father, he might have been alive; I have killed him. Shooting, hanging, stabbing, crucifying, would be too gentle, too tender fobr the human fiend who has robbed earth of the purest of lives. My mother says, as she kneels by the bed and looks at that dear, dear face "' My child, my child, if we could only see him now, radiant and beautiful in the gallery of the immortals! ' This mortal shall put on immortality.' He read the words, at prayers, only yesterday morning. How clear, solemn, and impressive they sounded; and he turned over some leaves and read, ' We are come to the general assembly and church of the firsthorn.'"And mother could say no more, ier voice was so choked with sobs. I remember how my father looked, as he sat on the sofa, with his serene, calm eyes fixed on the pages of the open Bible; and as the sunshine streamed it upon his face, his whole soul seemed absorbed in the sublimity of the words; a feeling of awe came over me, as I listened to his voice so full of tenderness and pathos. All day long the words came to my mind, "This mortal shall put on immortalityS," and I wondered what sort of coronation robe that immortality was for the soul, how it could be put on, and what sort of glorious light would gleam from it; and I thought I am glad we are mortal yet, for we are. all together, and it seemed to me then I could be happy if we were off on some lone page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] L, TOGETHER. . island,if we were only all together; for happiness, even in a mor. tal robe, is very bright and beautiful. i We rode by the Sylvan Lake, beside which, after many a walk e stood, at last, by that new-made grave. We laid him down gently, -that form we had caressed, and clasped, and clung to, our rest, our trust, our shield, our earthly all. It was the only journey we had ever made without his voice to cheer, his smile to brighten, his hand to help. We. came back to a home, too dear to leave, too desolate to linger or dwell in. The sky seemed no longer blue and bright there was a veil, a pall, a shadow over everything. One morning I sat in my chair, dumb, disconsolate, desolate, saying over to myself, " If my father had only died; but he did n't die, it -is my- poor murdered father. Oh! if I had never waked him he -might have lived. I have killed him o " As I sit brooding madly over this thought, my mother comes and kneels beside me,* and looks up earnestly into my face;- I see the gray hair. It all seemed to come in one night. I see the lines about the eye, the patient look about the mouth. My poor mother! my father loved so well; and she says, "Louise I Louise ! dont you love me any ?" I put my arm around her and say,- I try to say, O mother, mother, I'll try to comfort you. I'll try not to be so selfish." I sit alone, morning after morning, and begin to sketch my fathers portrait; every line and shade is so familiar, so distinct in my memory. I could always easily sketch a familiar face. I had a taste, and some little genius for it. But I can't draw my father's face as it once was, for- between me and those serene, sunny, sacred memories of my father, comes like a grim spectre the picture of that marred, murdered face. I can't forget that last look. Sabbath morning has come again. Only last Sabbath my father sung at worship- " Thine earthly Sabbaths, Lord, we love But there's a nobler rest above." I played it on the piano,- the piano is closed now. I suppose, there is a nobler rest above," but I can't sing Pabout it now. Perhaps my father sings it up there. TOGETHER. 15 -My mother reads: "Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations." It seemed to me as if I could hear reechoed, from some high organ down from the eternal hills, this sublimest peal, "Before the mountains were -brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to ever- lasting, thou art God." "Make us glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted us"- -reads my mother, and her voice falters, she can read no more. 1 take the Bible and I read, -"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty." I don't remem- ber muchof my mother's prayer, only these words at the end, - "May we prepare to go and be with him, whom our souls loved, where they go no more out forever." I go up alone into my room again, I open my father's hymn-book, I read some lines he has marked- "In each event of life, how clear, Thy ruling hand I see;" and I close the book. I say, "This was not God's hand, it was not His doing, it was man's undoing; death's angel never came, but a human fiend bent over that pillow. I killed my father. Oh, if I bad never waked him!" It is ten -o'clock. Margaret has just been here. Margaret lived with us five years before she married William. I say, "Margaret, I am glad William has come bacI." She bursts into tears, and she says, at last, "William has lost bothl his legs;" and then I remember, yesterday, when F was in Broadway on some business, I saw a man pushing his slow and painful way through the crowd, on the sidewalk; and that was William. Margaret says, he was out about that time yesterday. It made my heart ache to see him. I could not get him out of my mind a moment after I got home. Margaret has six, children; one is a cripple, one is blind, the baby is sick for want of good food and fresh, healthy air. Margaret has burned her right hand; she can't sew. Poor thing! her cup of trouble is full. Little Michael and Patrick go to Sun- day-school. There is one cap, and one pair of shoes for both. She has a cap a little too small for Michael that it might be not too large for Patrick, and so she managed with the shoes. Poor William, the last things he had bought were that cap and those shoes. Margaret looks up through her tears and says, "God is good, page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] 16 -- TOGETHER. Miss Louise. It is His will;" and she hands me a letter from her old mother in Ireland, to read to her. Poor old lady! she writes that she has " been laid up a twelve- month with a bad leg. Thank the Lord for that." Margaret goes away tugging little Margaret under her arm, and leading Michael aloifg with the other hand, but she does not give up. I look out after her, and I see little Margaret's wan, pinched, half-starved baby-face look wistfully over ho mother's shoulder, and I think what a pretty child little Margaret would be if she'could have comfort and care; and Margaret's words, "God is good; it is His will," and the message of her poor. old mother in Ireland, to her " dear and loving daughter Margaret; thank the Lordtfor that," is the beginning and end of a hymn of gratitude and resignation sung in two hearts, across life's great stormy ocean. "God is good." Margaret can say it, but I cannot. I feel humbled, grieved. I go into church a little late. The choir are singing the voluntary - "Though shrouded o'er Our path with gloom, one comfort, one, Is ours, - to breathe, while we adore, Thy will be done!"' The text is, -"It is the Lord, let Him do what seemeth Him good." I go early one morning to plant some violets on my father's grave, --my father loved violets. Not far from me is another grave, and beside it kneels a young man. He is planting flowers, too. He takes them out of a little basket, and then he stoops again to twine some myrtle leaves over the mound. He goes away' at last slowly, without looking back. He looks at no other grave,-his heabd is bowed. I pass by that grave, I pause a moment to look at the plain marble slab. There's a word carved on it- "Mother," and beneath it, "Blessed are the dead." I go away, I look up at the resurrection figures over the portals of Greenwood, but there are no resurrection words in my heart; only I am glad and thankful that I have a mother left, that that word is not yet carved for me in marble. I have seen that young man three times at that grave, yet I have never, seen his face but once, as he turned a little to lift up a cypress-vine that the wind had blown down the night before. He raised his hat a moment to wipe his forehead. I saw that it was high and broad and white, and wavy masses of black hair TOGETHER. 17 were falling over it. I almost think I should know that fore- Every time I go to Greenwood, I see fresh flowers on that grave. Some one seems to keep a sleepless vigil over it. One day as I twine a wreath of immortelles for my father's grave, I twine another, and as I pass the simple slab on which is carved "Mother,"--by its side fresh violets have opened their dewy, tearful eyes, --I lay reverently one of the wreaths of immorteles on the mound by the myrtle-leaves. I lay it there tenderly, reverently. I know no other worthier shrine for the offering, for some one's mother-sleeps there. It is the shrine of earth's first, best, truest, longest, last love, fc . . . e2 page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] TOGETHER. ! CHAPTER II. MY SHIP COMES BACK FROM SEA. "If riches increase, set not your heart upon them." -PSALMS Ixii. 10. "LOUISE! Louise! don't sit here in this room all day long, " said Mary, coming in one morning and standing on the threshold of my door, just as the sun burst in, bathing with dazzling light the open Bible I held in my hand. She comes and looks over my shoulder, and puts her finger on, this verse:-"Light is sown for the righteous, and gladness for the upright in heart." "These," said she, "are the most sunshiny words in the whole Bible. But come, Louise, you ought to be out; you've sat here almost a year, alone in this room." "'T is more than a year, Mary, 't is a year last June since I planted the first violets on that grave. June has come again and gone; it is November now. It has been November in my heart all the year; there's been no sunshine, no heart's-ease. I've cried myself to sleep every night, and the last thought at night and the first in the morning has been, 'I have killed my father.' I have heard the words everywhere; they have followed me like a ghost; but last night I read that sublime bravura song of Jean Paul Richter; I tried to think of that and forget everything else. I repeated some of the words until I fell asleep, and I dreamed such a delightful dream. I heard music of preparation and awakening suspense, like the opening of the coronation anthem. I passed by rushing planets, blazing suns, and then 'through , eternities of twilight. I was borne through architraves without measure, archways past number, and gates beyond memory,' and I dreamed I saw my father. He had the same look he had in life, but so etherealized, so glorified, I can't describe it, but I can shut my eyes and think just how he looked, and that look will never leave me. I know what that means now, --,It is raised in glory. You know how an artist will make some face so beauti- TOGETHER. 19 b4 ful, and yet it will be like the face. There 'll be an ideal glow about it, and yet you 'll call it natural; and my father spoke to me and he said, ' Child! child here is fulness of joy, here are. pleasures for evermore!' and Iheard everywhere the clear echo of the words ' for evermore, for ever-ever-more ;-' and far up those heights came pealing down from a choir o voices, Eye hath not seen;' and4sweeter voices from other heights answered back, ' nor ear heard;' and higher still, as if from listening choral stars, floated down on the serene air, ' neither hath entered into the heart of man the things which G9d hath prepared;' and then myriad voices, away up those billowy heights, joined in one triumphal burst of song -' for them that love him;' echo answered echo back, 'that love him, love him, love him ;' and I awoke, and these. words came into my mind,o' Fear not them that kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul. I lay still with my eyes closed, thinking of my father's glad, bright look, and his joyous voice, and those words,' Child! child! here are pleasures for evermore.' "As I opened my eyes I saw the morning-stars shining down in my window, and I thought this sight of my father's radiant face was like a new morning star in my heart, clear and bright. "I arose, sat by this window, and here I have been ever since. And see, Mary, what I have done," - and I held up a little card, which lies on the open leaves of the Bible, on which is a sketch of my father's face. "How perfect," said Mary, as she held it in her hand; " it ha not a single defect, - the eye, mouth, and brow are all his." "Yes," said I, " it is my father's face. I was so afraid the dear, delightful memory would fade away. I sat down, with my soul bathed in the glory of that dream, and I have hardly stirred since. I shall have my father's portrait now. Carleyn shall copy it in oil, and I will write under it, ' Pleasures for evermore,' that whenever I look at itI can -be reminded of the consoling words and the sweet look in my father's eye, as he said them, as if he would fold me to his heart. I think I can copy his ex- pression exactly. It had an unearthly, marvellous beauty, as if kindled by immortal artist, in some gallery of Heaven." Now I have seen my father, I know he is near me still. I would i't call him back, if I could; it would seem like calling a bird back from the sky, and binding its wings to the earth, and forbidding it to soar and sing any more. Yes, I know my father is near me still. The most cruel thought about our dead is, that they are so page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] 20 f TOGETHER. far away; but I believe now, they are often nearer to us than our living friends. I shall always think my father is near me now. If the soul travels so far and sees so much, when shut up here in a mortal body, why should n't its, range be greater and its vision wider when it goes at will and wish, without a mortal fetter to bind or a mortal sense to bar. Love must beintenser, memory stronger, when the blinding earth-veil is off; the soul's jewelled light will flash forth far into the past, forward into the future. I know he is near me now. I can't prove it from the Fathers, the ages or verses of the Bible; but I read in the sweet hymns of the-ages of my heart, when this mortal is put off, im- mortal love and immortal longings faint not, fail us not. Whefn the cruel words still haunt me, "You have killed your father, I 'll stifle the great sob that will come, with the sweet re- frain of my dream, "Pleasures for evermore." It may banish the old haunting regret that has stung and stabbed me so constantly. "Louise," said Mary, "I am glad you have the picture, but you look like a shadow yourself; don't sit here every day by this old- fashioned grate. "Mary, you'll see me here by this grate whenever you find me alone. I'd like a grate, with a fire in it, in every room in the house, if nobody had to make and nobody clean them out, - if they would kindle, burn, and put themselves out and light up again, as the stars do.' "These modern registers seem to shut-out the clear glow of Aidought. But the grate, glowing and genial, suits every mood; its fitful fire is a pleasant contrast to the dumb furniture about me. The circling blaze cheers and inspires me. I sigh to leave it; it snaps and cracks and laughs its way up the chimney as I come back to it, with its joyous hilarity; it is my always amiable friend. I could n't be contented without it. If the house were full of furnaces, heaters, JAtnas, I 'd want one grate for myself, so that I could 'say to a friend, not a graceful card-leaver, but some dear good lady like you, Mary,- with a blue cloud and black- and-white shawl, ' Come, sit by my fire.' Most all earth's angels v comein clouds nowadays. a The' heart does n't want a register- side, but a fireside, where' shadows can dance upon the parlor wall' shadows, - those beautiful bewitching troops that modern conveniences are fast banishing- to the great prairies of neglect. Thedear old word twilight loses half its meaning when no glow- ingashes fall on the hearth, but nut-cracking, apple-eatinL, .go-to- bed-early days are over now, and you can't find the word fireside TOGET'rHER. 21 in city dictionaries; we see it in poetry yet sometimes; like lov6 in a cottage, it reads well and sings well. "Mary, I was thinking as you came in, that my heart was like this grate; yesterday it was cheerless, comfortless, cold; but this morning some little handmaiden comfort came and kindled a bright, fresh fire on its hearth, brushed away the old embers, took away the ashes, and now I see live, cheerful coals. The heart needs a deal of raking, sweeping, kindling; like the grate covered up with the blower, it will kindle at last. So enfold the heart in calm dreams; it will wake up with a glow." "I wish," said Mary, " all the bunglers, that can only make a dust, and fuss, and smoke in the heart, would let it alone; they 'll be sure to take off the cover too soon, and the fire 'll go right out again." "As I sit by my grate, Mary, this fitful November wind opens the gate of memory, and raises the bridge of thought. I lean my head on my hand, and wonder why was I born? Does the world want me? If I were a man I would accomplish something that would call me away at morning, and bring me back weary at nightfall. If the soul can bear all day long its knapsack of care, it will come home to rest, happier at nightfall than if it sits all day long in thought's easy-chair, in dressing-gown and slip- pers. But I am not an active, useful man; I'm only a woman, and seventeen, and all alone." "I did n't know until yesterday that your mother was dead/, said Mary. A My mother went to Heaven last May. The lamps were just lighted as she went up to spend her first twilight among the stars. Sometimes I think I can see' her now, with her soft brown hair parted over her pale, classic forehead, sitting by my grate, in that arm-chair. The chair is there yet, with the same green cover and cushion. After one has one great sorrow, Mary, another will most always come soon, and we bear it better; we leave the gate of the heart open for joy's funeral-procession to walk in; we only bow our heads meekly, as if waiting for the next grief." "Your mother left you a fortune," said Mary. "No; she left me her prayers, and the memory of her fragrant life, her noble example, and her parting blessing. After pyinmg all expenses,'I had only five dollars left. I was wronged out of the property my father had, and I had no friend of whom I would beg ,or borrow one centi My mother was buried in Greenwood, in a beautiful spot, beside my father. I was there yesterday; th page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] 22 - TOGETHER. birds had built a nest in one of the trees. The place is a perfect bower of evergreens ; on the summit of the monument is a marble figure, whose classic features are- so like my beautiful mother's. Over the face, these immortal trees bend their loving shadows, and kiss the brow. You can hear the murmur of the fountain near, and catch, through the trees, glimpses of the distant ocean, with the white sails calmly moving on their placid way, and you think how, far away from earth's beautiful Greenwood, white-robed spirits sail calmly, on the serene sea of Eternity. "I shut myself up three days, after my mother died, and thought and grieved, and grieved and thought, and on the fourth day, for I knew I must do something, I took out my writing-desk, selected my best pen and a clear sheet of paper, and answered two of the advertisements for teachers which I saw in that morn- ing's paper. - Then I wrote some advertisements for a situation as teacher, or as a resident or visiting governess. I spent one whole day in writing and copying on small slips of paper these notices. I had had what is called an accomplished and thorough education. My father had no son, and, so far as he could, he gave mie the education he would have given a son; it was his theory, that, if a woman's mind was weaker than man's, it needed strength- ening; if it were really strong, it needed culture. I read Virgil, Horace, Terence, Lucian, Homer, in the original. I read all the Iliad, and large portions of the Odyssey, and I had translated French comedies. My father always chided me if I was indolent, and encouraged me when industrious. He said, whatever was the native soil of woman's intellect, it needed enriching and planting with the best thoughts that would grow there., "I could sing and execute, I suppose, with some expression and taste, but yet I dreaded to insert that fearful clause,' Can teach music and give instruction in Latin and French.' In music, how could I be scientific, methodic, or precise enough-; as to French, few English tongues give a good Parisian accent. I always hes- itate and stammer when I talk with a Frenchman. I fear his critical, correct, and native ear; and as to Latin, how could I compare with those classical, spectacled, and erudite Oxford pro- fessors, who know better where some classic river runs, or Greek mountain rears its head, than where the Hudson flows, or the blue Catskills kiss the clouds. But at last I wrote this notice, modest enough, I hoped,--' Can teach the common and higher English branches, and the rudiments of Latin and Greek; will give lessons in French, Music, and Drawing, if desired.' This I TOGETHER 23 carefully copied, crossed, dotted, and punctuated, and had inserted in two daily papers. But, oh! how I did dread teaching. Set- ting myself up as a model in mind, morals, and manners; always prompt, precise, perpendicular, in talking and acting; forever on guard; self-bivouacked, self-sustaining, self-reliant. I never could teach for the pleasure of it; I should only teach because I had to. I knew I was young for a school-ma'am. I tried to brush out the waves in my hair, and I tucked my ringlets under my net." Here Mary interrupted me with the exclamation,-- "A'n't these nets a blessed institution, Louise " "I straightened myself up to my full height, closed my lips firmly in imaginary dignity, to look as mature as possible. Tears, trouble, little food and less sleep, made me look two years older than I really was. I started at every ring at the door: it might be somebody to answer the advertisement." "Did anybody answer the application? "Yes; and the first lady said, in her sharp voice, sharp manner, I was too young. She looked at me with her sharp forehead, sharp eyes, sharp nose, sharp mouth, sharp chin, as if my youth was a crime. IdWas too blonde, too natural, or too youthful, to suit anybody that day, and I am sure nobody suited me; and everybody asked me that stale question,' Have you ever taught before?' I had a good mind to put on my grandmother's spec- tacles and a wig, and try to look like the Sage, Experience her- self, the next day. But I didn't feel like doing anything com- ical. I only cried myself to sleep that night. I was afraid I would n't get a good situation, and that I could n't fill it accepta- bly if I did; then I so dreaded teaching just yet. I much pre- ferred studying more myself. I had n't yet recovered from the first stunning shock of grief. It was too soon to control self, face strangers, and brave circumstances. Hknelt down that night and promised God, that,. if He would work out for me a path, I would try to walk in it; but I earnestly prayed Him not to leave me to the sole guidance of my ignorant heart. I dreamed that night, that I held in my hand that little card I once got when a child at Sunday-school, the first verse I ever learned, and which I have never forgotten: ' In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths.' I awoke in the morning, so vivid was my dream, and looked eagerly for the card; but the card was not there, though the verse was in my heart clearer than ever. I shed no tears that morning; I kept thinking about the words on the card. The sun shone very bright; happy children were page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] 24 TOGETHER. playing on the sidewalk in front. The fire burned cheerfully in my grate. The little volume of Tupper's Poems was on, my bu- reau. I took it up and opened to these lines,-- "Never give up, there'are chances and changes Helping the hopeless a hundred to one, And through the chaos High Wisdom arranges Ever success, if you 'll only hope on.' "' Two cents, ma'am, said Bridget at the door; 'here 's a letter.'. "The superscription was business-like, manly, legible. ' Here's an application,' I thought, 'perhaps a good one,' as I held the letter a moment unopened in my hand. I opened and read it. I read it three times over. It could n't be for me, not for this Louise Grenville. It was an application-but for me to appear at a Pertain place, at a specified time, prove my identity, and receive a fortune coming to me from my maiden aunt, Louise Grenville, recently deceased. - My maiden aunts lived alone, and were so prudent and healthy, I really supposed they would live as long as I; and if they died, - they were both so opposed to-my father's marrying they never forgave him, and never held any communi- cation with him or his family, - I expected nothing from them. The younger aunt was once engaged to a lawyer, who died on his return from Europe, drowned at sea, while on his way home to be married.- She never wished for other bridegroom, and at her death bequeathed all her property to her only surviving sister Louise. Louise, the elder, always said she would never give up the good name of Grenville; and no Grenville offered her his hand.; and so, refusing many eligible offers, she-lived and died a Grenville." I am young, seventeen, but no longer poor. My mother is the only saint in my calendar, the one ideal of my imagination. If I can live to be her equal on earth, her companion in Heaven, I have no higher ambition, no loftier aim, no holier purpose. I 've no cold-hearted guardian; I shall be tyrannized over in no board- ing-school, nor suffer from pride, poverty, or persecution. No grim step-father, austere aunt, or cruel governess sways, checks, or crosses me, watches or opposes me. Don't turn away, reader, and say, "Oh dear! what a heroine! There will be no romance, no pathos, no tragedy, no tears." There's no life-story, faithfully told, but has its tragedy, its thrill, its charm. I have always acted from impulse; so I may often act, while this same heart prompts, and this same head guides this hand. "As I tell my TOGETHER. 25 story, you, in your superior prudence and graver experience, will see many errors. With flushed cheek and flashing eye, you may sometimes want to give me a good shaking, as you exclaim, i' What did you do that for?"But you can't shake me; nobody can. Guardians, legal and natural, are all dead. I am my own guardian, mistress sole of self supreme. My hands full, you think. I shall make mistakes, but not the same one twice, I hope. I'll try and not burn myself but once with the same bit of coal. "The morning in which I received the news of my fortune, I also had an invitation to attend a large party to be given that evening. The cards were out ten days before, but through some mistake I did not receive mine until that morning. I made no preparation for the party, but that evening shut myself up alone in my rooni, with my grate, and made resolutions, - Resolutions! - little glass-blowers in the soul, spinning and weaving all kinds of beautiful figures for the soul's etagere, for the first wild child of impulse to break and dash to pieces,--little morning-glories, fresh and bright at morning, after the soul rises from dreams, but faded, withered, and closed up, long ere care's scorching noontide. If everybody's resolutions were published, with dates and localities, what a good, pious, moral, exemplary library the world would be: full of rarest reflections, childhood's assistants, young man's companions, and advice to the aged." Once," interrupted Mary, for she had been sitting a long time quietly by the grate, crocheting, - she had her work with her, - - once I thought I would write down all my resolutions, for one year; but I soon stopped. The text and context were always so conflicting, I could not bear to read them myself, and I 'in sure I would not want any one else to see them. To re- - view them once a day, for a year, would be worse than wearing a perpetual mustard plaster on my side for fifty-two weeks, all the year round. The very thought of these broken resolutions is enough to raise a spiritual blister; but yet I begin, and 1 always expect to begin, each day, with a good respectable reso- lution, but I never write it down, never. A day without its opening resolution is like a book without a title-page. Here is one resolution I have made, and I'1 keep it. I 'll not sponge it out from thisz year's slate. I think I 'll keep it three' years, and it is, not to let any one but you, reader, and Mary IK know of my having any fortune of my own. I will dress and live in so unostentatious a way, that no one will suspect. page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] 26 TOGETHER. my ability to live better. If I gain friends, I want to gain them all just for my own worth, just for myself. In this way, too, I can better pursue the path I have marked out for myself. I am boarding in plain, respectable quarters. I had them when my money came, I have them still. We occupied the house when my mother lived; now it is rented, And I board with the family. I have my old room, my grate, and my mother's arm-chair. It is a three-story brick house, substantial and in a pleasant avenue. I shall take one other room, about as large as this. This is all the style I shall adopt. I have for months pinched, economized, patched, and darned. This sudden money-getting surprises, over- whelms me. I have worn my old -blue mering four winters, turned it upside-down, and inside-out; this winter it was to have been dyed a shade darker; and that bonnet, you can't tell how it has been turned and twisted and fixed over; and the feather I have curled myself, four times, by the fire. I shall keep that feather to remind me of old times. /I have a habit of opening the Bible, to see what verse will meet my eye, and this verse I saw first, after getting my money,-;-jWhen riches increase, set not your heart upon them." Cities are places where the rich can have everything they want, for money, and the poor, nothing, for want of it. Mary puts up her croclheting, puts on her hood and shawl, kisses me good-night, and leaves me alone with my grate. I felt so badly about leaving this grate and going away to teach; now I can sit by it at any time I choose; it is my corner still-- mine;- no one can force me out when my heart aches; no bell shall ring me away from my solitude; no study-hour limits my reveries. I wait for no recess, watch no clock. I open my mother's Bible to-night, and the first verse that meets my eye is this: "Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth." But the fire is very low; I'1ll put on no more coals; I 'll close the shutters, and light the gas. So, god-night, reader. But wait a moment: most all good-nights, that is, young girls' good-nights, have a postscript. I will tell you the last thing I remember before I go to sleep, - that is, if one ever does r emem- "ber the last thing; it is this thought: Every heart is a poem, with its vivid image hidden in the dark chamber of thought's camera- obscura. Ever and anon, out in the sky of fiction, there flashes forth some strong, clear soul-light, that brings out a finished copy of the beautiful, the illuminated heart, the most exquisite and wonderful vignette in all the world's album. i I 'J l'U U EalH . Re 27 CHAPTER III. ACROSS THE WAY. He that giveth to the rich shall surely come to want." - PROV. xxii. 16. "He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth to the Lord."- Prov. xix. 17. IT is mornin, again; there has been a heavy dew, but no rain. I look out of my window; just ovel the way is a small louse; up stairs, over- the fiont door, is a window. There, I have sorne- times seen, for a molnent, a young, pale face. It used to pass my door often, and the white, unzloved bands carried large bundles; so perhaps she works. I used to see her pass every morning but, now I think of it, I have n't seen her for more than two weeks. She is quite lame. T'o be rich and lame is hard. but to be poor and laIne is worse. But there goes the door-bell. It is a little bottle of medicine, for the sick 3oung woman. The boy has made a mistake, and called at 278 instead of 275; so the young woman is sick, - sick, poo,l; and lame. She must only have that little bedloom over the fi'ont door. Every pleasant morninr I see one little plant out on the window. I have seen her watch that one little scarlet, bud, as if it were an only child. I remember how I passed out of the florist's one morning, just as she was look- ing at that plant. She held an old, an anlost empty, brown silk purse in her hand. She looked wistfully at the flower, and then sadly at. the purse; at last, with the feeling that comes to al- most everybody sometimes, she suddenly said, "1I'll take it," mentally adding, "ifit is extravagant, because I want it." I no- ticed she paint for it with the only money there was in the bot- ,tom of the old purse. It was a two-shilling piece; and, hugging the plant as a bereaved mother clasps an adopted child, she hur- ried home. That must have been about two months since. The plant ha! grown, and there's more than one bud on it now. Annie Arlington and I are old schoolmates; she is my dear, best friend. She is to be married to-morrow; it will be a grand wed- ' , page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] 28 ' TOGETHER. ding; such splendid presents she will have. She has a fortune in her own right, a wealthy father and, mother, and half a dozen childless uncles and aunts, with whom Annie is the pet and pride. I'm so glad Annie sent me cards to the ceremony. I like. to, see people married. When I'm married I mean to be married in church. I think the church is a fit place for so sacred a ceremony, and then all one's friiends can see you if they wish. Nobody will be offended or disappointed. I should hate to have a wedding of mine disappoint anybody. People of late get it in their heads that it is a select, refined, choice idea to let none but nearest relatives see you married, and 'I f' expecting every day to hear that it is n't considered fashion- able to have eve even one's father and mother at the. ceremony. 1 I'd invite my best friends, anyhow. As if everybody did n't know that one dear, best friend, who has laughled with you, cried with you, walked with you, talked with you, slept with you, dreamed with you, almost idolized you, may not be nearer and dearer than all aunts and cousins beside! To ask all these and leave out vour soul's true sister and heart's real brother, is all folly. I'd ask aunts and cousins, to be sure; the tie of relationship God made. I believe in respecting it. Among them are some noble hearts. If they don't see you married, own it or not, they al- ways feel a panrt and a mortification when they think of it. They'd rather you'd forget them at any other time, or all of the rest of your life. Their Lhearty good wishes, holy tears, and lov- ing smiles are worth something. Let each little ray of love's sunshine gather around the bride. But of all things I hate thesd after-cards, to tell you in a for- mal way that your friend is Mrs. Somebody, and has gone some- where ; and if you are ever in that some place, peihaps five thou- salnd miles off, you can go and see her at home. I want the before- cards, as little Willie Cater calls them, or I don't want any. 1 take a deep interest, as lont as I live, in persons I have seen married. I play for their happiness, I hopefor their future. It is late in the afternoon. Annie Arlington is alone. She is lookinor over her wedding-presents. Among them are five clocks, one dozen butter-knives, three silver services, and two dozen tea- spoons. "I wonder why people send. me so many butter-knives," said-Annie. "I have half a dozen of my own already. I might set up a jeweiry store. I wish somebody had them, that needed them more; and to-morrow morning, I suppose, there will be more knives and clocks and spoons." ,- , TOGETHER. 29 I am going to the florist's. Mr. Humphreys, the florist, and I are good friends. There 's woman's pathos in his eye, childhood's tenderness on his tongue, manhood's dignity in his bearing. I wish that noble head of his would never show any gray, that kind heart have no ache, that ready hand no trembling. that firm step no faltering; but my wishes are neither prophetic nor potential, so some one may call him up higher soon, to walk in the garden above, among the amaranths and immortelles. Your genuine flo- rist is a genuine gentleman. I have wondered how an uneducated man, like Mr. Humphreys, could talk so fluently and often so ele- gantly; but he has grown so familiar with the flowers, and they are God's ancient classics, pure, chaste, refined.; their root is the root of eloquence ; their germ, the germ of thought ; their flower- ing, the type of vesthetic beauty; as their fairy bells ring out their rare Runic rhymes, their culture and growth is the culture of Poetry's self. Hear Mr. Humphreys talk about the habits and wants of flowers, and wonder how he learns such rare knowledge, till you remember that it was once in a garden God came and talked with man amongst the flowers in the cool of the day. This afternoon I go to the florist's. I want a bouquet: tube-roses, helio- tropes, japonicas, mignonette, pansies, radiant salvias, drooping fuchsias, tea-roses, jessamines, rose-geraniums, plenty of that ex- quisitely scented lemon verbena, cypress-vines, lilies of the valley, and orange-blossoms. I look all through the conservatory, and order the most exquisite white flowers I can see, then I select the most brilliant crimson and scarlet buds and most ethereal little blue blossoms. I never had a bouquet like this. I get all the white rose-buds I can find; I have the stems of all the flowers cut long, and then, after they are grouped together, I wind the prettiest vines I can see round them. From the borders of the bouquet droop the richest fairy flower-bells in the conservatory. I go and buy a beautiful parian vase; I put the flowers in the vase, and the vase very carefully in a large common basket; lay cotton in all around the vase, to keep it in its place, put the cover on the bas- ket, tell the florist to send it immediately to No. 275, take it to the sick young woman up-stairs, and see that it is handed into her room. From my window I watch the boy ring the bell,'go in, come out in a few moments, and go away. I shall make Annie Arlington no wedding-present. Why do the rich need so many gifts? I only sent her around, just at dusk, a little bunch of fresh violets, and I wind around the stems some paper, and write upon it,-"Dear Annie, may you always have page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] :30 - TOGETHER. nestling in your heart some'little fresh buds of heart's-ease." I stand and see Annie married. I ovbrhetr, in the dressing-room, a young lady, who did not know I was so near, say, s"Annie has no present from Louise Greenville: she was either too poor to buy or too stitn qy to give one." Hardly could Mildred Lee have been happier, if a white-robed troop of angels had circled around her bed with blessings on their silent lips. The perfume of heliotrope, tube-rose, mignonette, and orange,-blossoms filled the room. , Never before, beneath that lowly ceiling, came such beautiful guests, such magnificent clowns imperial, such regal purple robes, for never heart's-ease had there left its balm, or forgret-me-not its benediction. Mildred sat propped tip with pillows. Her cheeks had a new, strange glow. her eyes gleamed with beautiful ligl!t; and be- fore her those flowers. - "Are they for me? There must be some mistake. Nobody ever gave me a flower; and these are so beau- tiful! I have worlkd for years and never owned a flower, only that one little scarlet rose in the window; yot I always had such a passion for them. If I were rich I would have fiesh flowers on nmy table every morning. I never thoul!t I could have any witlh- out earning them myself; and if I were sick, I must starve or go to the poor-house. Nobody in this world has ever thought of me, since I was first called mothllerless. I dreamed of flowers last night, - oh, such beautiful flowers! I thought I was goiing to Heaven, to see theIn ; I should never have any here, but somebodly ias thought of me," and tears trickled down her pale cheeks, as she held the fairy bells of the lily of the valley ill her thin haind. They seemed to wlhisper, -' If God so, clothes us with wondrous beauty, how muclh more will iHe nlot clothe thee, O thou of little 4 faith?"She held the forget-me-nots and looked wistfillly into their starry eyes. "Some one thinks of me, some one thinks of me," she softly whispered as she lay with dreamy, drooping, happy, half-open eyes, until she fell at last into a sweet sleep. Down-stairs in No. 275, in a little back-roomln sat an old lady, rocking and knitting. She was knitting that everlisting blue- mixed yarn stocking. One who did n't know would think ofor twenty years it was the same stockilg, always near the heel. She had the same smile she lihad fifty years ago, as she talked to herself. It was Prudence Poiter still. She had been out in the hall to see who came in. She watched the boy as he went up. fol- lowed him in the door, saw the basket and the flowers; and then, walking back again, had sat down to her knitting. iWhat can TOGETHER. 31 that girl want offlowers? did anybody ever hear anything like it? There is her board all back, and I don't believe she has more than one decent dress, not one pair of yarn stockings; it's a handsome bukkett. I really believe it's handsomer than Squire Jones's'darter had in her hand when she was married, in the meeting-bus. What do the poor want of such things? always give them something you don't need; they can fix it over for them to wear; but to take money and buy things for them of no use, it might better go in the Savings-Bank, and do some good to a body in a rainy day. If they'd sent her some yarn stockings, o01 woollen shirts, or Brandreth's pills, or quieting drops, or some tonike, it would have been sensible, but whoever heard of send- illn a whole basket of flowers to a poor, sick, lame sewinog-irl, who had n't hardly a dress to her back. If s]he wants flowers so badly, she can look at the flowers on that bed-quilt. I'm sure there's enough of themn there. I think the girl must be a little out of her head' sometimes, for she really thought more of those flowers than of that nice bowl of gruel I made for her yesterday. I'm glad I used up the oatmeal, anyhow; Hwanted to wash out the stone pot, and oatmeal is always a little bitter when it stands so long. I 've got a few dried peaches left; I guess I'll make sher a little sarce; somehow those penches have a bitter tang to them, and keeping such things standing only makes more of those red ants come." If the heart is drooping and dying, give it a good strong dose, a hundred grains of joy! it may break the stupor and save the patient. Intense joy is often like an electric shock. In some cases it thrills, and wakes, and cures. In Mildred Lee's weary, sad heart, happiness was almost stilled, not one pulse of joy stirred; buti this unexpected pleasure was like an electric shock; the heart beat once more warmly, the joy-pulse was quickened, the glow was coming back in sorrow's cheek! the flowers were the angels that said to buried, dead hope, ("Come forth!" the flowers were the angels that rolled away from the door of her heart the great stony grief, and living hope came forth, with face unveiled, and hand unbound. No wonder Prudence Potter thought those -elegant flowers looked strangely on that bed, mocking with their quiet grace and delicate profiles the ugly, awkward tulips of faded red and green chintz, in that old threadbare coverlid; but there's no place where a flower can't come. Like a humming-bird in a dungeon, a nightingale in a desert, a star in a storm--there they were, page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] 32 TOGETHER. holding their heads regally, daintily, yet, like great, good -souls, / lovingly, cheeringly. Flowers are the last of earth, the first of Heaven; we go away and leave our dead alone with Greenwood shadows, and set them, like a sleepless watch, at the door of our sepulchres. We turn away, but the sweet saintly face of the flower leans over, and lingers day and night, watching faithfully "the hallowed spot where our best-beloved sleep, and patiently waiting long, lonely-nights beside the mute marble, for the dawn of the resurrection morning. Wesee thetI here ; we may see them there, when open on our waking eyes the air bright morn- ing-glories of the eternal hills. I sat in a recess at Annie Arlington's reception. I saw the bright eyes, heard the merry laugh, watched the old man in the corner, blowing away on his clarionet, so pleased and contented, feeling himself so important a part of the evening's entertain- ment. The three sable musicians behind the piano had a bright, dignified, weighty expression' on their dark faces. The first of the trio,-whose movements on the violin were so graceful and skilful,shouted ever and anon, in his clear ventriloquistic voice, as if it came from away off and away down somewhere, - La- dies to the right, gentlemen to the left, forward, classez, all prom- enade." He looked as solemn and consequential as if guiding the movements of an immense advancing army. It was enough to make him sit up so very straight and look so imposing, to command and control the movements of so many fair ladies and elegant gentlemen. The sable brother by his side at the piano, with delicate touch, exact time, and intuitive change of measure, through andante, adagio, and allegro,.had so symmetrical a head, you would call it beautiful, if the face were only white. It had none of those protruding African peculiarities; his calm, grave eye looked per- fectly oblivious of the brilliant crowd before him, as if his world were all touch and ear, his thoughts circumferenced and diame- tered in the piano before him. There was a blaze of dazzling light, a rustle of moire-antique and silk, a beautiful array of illusion, with myriad puffs, scarfs, sashes, fichues, and ruches. There were ringlets and waves, bands and braids, and bows of auburn and golden, brown and raven, adorned, entwined, and wreathed with dewy japonica and balmy geranium. Pearls and diamonds gleamed, as dancers glided on, till beauty vied with beauty, as graceful forms and fairy faces flitted by me like enchantment. TOGETHER. 33 I suppose everybody was comfortable; they looked so - I sup- pose they felt so; but if all the comfort of that richly-robed and gay-hearted three hundred could be weighed and garnered, it could n't equal, in solid worth or real beauty, the one little pearl of comfort gleaming in the first happy tear iri Mildred's eye, as sh!e lay there alone in her cheerless, comfortless room, with those flowers breathing their perfumeAll through her heart. The flower Evangel had opened a window from heaven in the ro0of of her soul; it was God's little skylight, where shone in new stars and new sunshine; over that skylight, poverty's iron door ,had longl shut and barred out the stars. After the elegant supper, I saw the beautiful pyramids of flowers demolished, and each blooming tier of the fairy structure robbed of its floral clusters, and each fair lady bore away a balmy trophy of -the brilliant evening. I thought how soon the flowers would fade from the memory, and the music die away on their ears; no deathless balm would gather in, or garland one heart, frorn that grand, gay reception's cheer and charm; but in Mil- dred's heart was reared a pyramid of happiness, whose clusters of joys were never demolished or borne away to wither. The music of ho pe and thanksgiving would never cease its soft chim- ing away up in the lone tower of her soul. That gay three hundred, with hearts and homes lit up with com- fort's ceaseless burners, could never feel such a delicious joy-thrill, - hope could n't gleam with its diamond light as it flashed forth in Mildred's soul, where neither candle, nor lamp, nor spark, nor fire, nor star of comfort had burned for long, dark, clouded years. Annie's reception was only one of pleasure's gala bonfires or grand illuminations, dying out with the dawn; but a little star of hope, had followed those flowers, and came and stood over where Mildtred was. Mildred is alone on life's great cheerless stage; 'tis her first Benefit. She hears in low sweet tones from some silent world above and around her, as if from unseen auditors and angelic spectators, the words, faint but clear, "Encore, encore." Long after midnight, when the guests were all gone, Annie still, but Annie Arlington no longer,-stood in the parlor, a vision of loveliness, robed 'n illusion and surrounded with flowers. She stooped to pick hp c tube-rose that lay crushed under the piano- stool. "What a sin ito crush a flower," said she; ' I am almost tired of japonica agid tube-loses. Everybody that knew me seemed to send me flowers. I really did n't know where to place 8 page: 34-35[View Page 34-35] 34 - TOGETHER. all the magnificent bouquets, so as not to neglect the giver by hid- ing the gift. Every niche was full. I had little brackets put up on the wall, under all the pictures, for vases of flowers; the table was loaded down with them; those four pyramids of flowers cost one hundred dollars, and then father ordered so many from our conservatory, and they sent home the bride's bouquet, with a long white silk fringe around it. , I would just as soon trim up my moss rosebush with rosettes, or put spectacles on my Canary- bird, as to fringe up a bride's bouquet; but I thought more of Louise Grenville's little bunch of heart's-ease than of all the other magnificent bouquets. I put'them in my room, by the Bible mother gave me this morning. I shall press some of them be- tween its leaves. Mother always says, 'The only true place to find heart's-ease is in the pagres of the Bible,"' "-and Annie's blue eyes filled with tears. "Poor mother! how can I go away and leave her." Annie-has married Mr. Nelson Milleen, a young clergyman; -he has a wonderful head, large heart, great soul, and eloquent tonngue. I can trust Annie withl him. The wedding was- over ; the bride had gone on her journey. I can't help it, I do feel sadly when one of my frienlds marries. Annie says she will like me as well now as ever. But yet, I can't tell her everything. She will want to tell him, and I h:lve n't seen the masculine hero yet to whom I could confide all my screts; certainly not anybody's husband. Husbands and wives till tell each other everything, and they'll want to, if they / can't. If they are true husbands and wives, they almost think aloud, together. I sit by my grate and have a good cry; I sup- pose I am a little goose, but I can't help it, and Annie and I have had so many good talks together. I open a little miniature, and gaze at it. Oh dear, dear mother! how I used to tell you everything. When I had you, I was sure of one good friend left. About an hour before my mother died, she called very faintly, "Louise." I bent over her. I caught these words, as they were uttered, slowly, and with great difficulty: -i Whatsoever - thy- hand - findeth - to - do, - do - with - thy- might." Word by word, with low, impressive emphasis, they fell softly on my ear, and as solemn as the toll of a Greenwood bell comes through the shadowy trees and across the sylvan lake. Whatsoever - whatsoever - what a word! It circles good, I conquers evil, spans duty, bridges danger, defies destiny. I can't* forget it. I TOGETHER. 35 I sat by my grate last night; as the fire died away, as each litle coal kindled and burned, I could almost read the dim hiero- giyphs in the expiring coals. Whatsoever-whatsoever! As I lay awake long after the old clock in the hall struck twelve, the ? last words I remember were, " whatsoever -whatsoever." ' s \, \ page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] 36 TOGETHER. CHAPTER IV. "WHATSOEVER." "Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth." - MATT. vi. 3. I WENT to a bookstore one morning, to get some books for my poet's corner. While looking over a new "Harpers'," I heard some one cough. -I turned my head and saw, standing near the door, a pale, thin-looking gentleman, a student; I know he is a student, for he looks at those books as if he would eat them. He has been examining a set of "Cosmos." He turns over the leaves, and asks the price; it is five dollars. He gives a sigh, lays down the books, and turns away. I'd like to have that "Cosmos " myself. I spent three hours the other day, at the Astoi Library, reading it. The student looks at several books, and buys nothing; but I can see that he wants that "Cosmos," more than anything. - His linen is white and smooth, boots well polished, but his coat is threadbare; the cuffs and collar are much worn. It is a cold day; the man ought to have on an over-coat; but I can see he'd. rather have that "Cosmos " than a coat. Possibly, he has n't money for either! I wait in the store, turning over the leaves-of a new volume of Tennys n's, until the student goes out, with'a sad look on his face. I turn a moment and look after him, as he lifts his hat to wipe his forehead. I know that forehead, and I say, that is the man I have seen by that grave. He crosses the street, stops to see that beautiful engraving of Evangeline in the window, and I notice as he stands there in the sunshine, that his hat is altogether too old and shabby to protect or adorn the well-made head it covers. -The clerks are all in the back part of the store. There 's no one left to wait on me but the boy, who seems to know just where to find everything I want. I ask him, (you know you can ask a boy most anything,) "if he knows who that man is, who has just gone out." TOGETHER. 37 "Yes," said the boy;" he is here often. He boards only a little way around the corner, at No. 8. He has the third-story back- room iup-stairs. I know, for I took a Greek dictionary there once, which we, had bound for him. We put his name on the back, Ernest Heart. He is a student." "Has he any relatives here?" "None that I know of. His mother died a year ago last June. That is why he wears that crape band on his hat. She was sick a long time, and they say he was very kind to her, and thought everything of her. I was in the country one winter, at a district- school he taught that winter. They said he was poor, and wanted to earn some money to pay his college-bills. He taught all winter, and boarded round. One -bitter cold night, some one put him in a-very cold room, with damp sheets, and not enough bed-clothes. I suppose he was n't used to it. He was brought up tender, for his father was rich when he was a boy. He wore old,- thin shoes, and got his feet wet often. It was that very cold winter we had. There was snow most all winter long. I suppose that was the way he got that cough. He attends some kind of lectures now. He goes every Wednesday, and some other days besides." I buy that set of "Cosmos." While he is busy doing it up, the boy and I have another talk. He used to be in a drug-store; took little bottles of medicine to Mildred Lee. - She has the hip- disease, or something like it; can't afford to have a doctor; has no fire in her room, often no light in the evening; goes somewhere to copy sometimes, but can't earn much, because she is lame and delicate; does a little, ocesionally, on a sewing-machine, in a fancy-store, but if she works very hard one day, pain keeps her awake all night. Mother says Mildred sometimes earns enough for her bread and butter, sometimes for bread without butter, often has neither bread nor butter. Her father was an artist, young, but a real artist, just getting success. He died of quick consumption, brought on by painting late at night, by gas-light, in his studio, without fire. He had just finished a picture, from which he hoped to pay his rent and other bills. After he died, his wife sold it for two hundred dollars. The man that bought it sold it the next day for a thousand. Mr. Carleyn said it was worth two thousand any day. After a year, Mrs. Lee lost her health, going out in all weathers, seeking something to keep her- self and Mildred from starving. She died of trouble and, my mother said, of a broken heart. It was the day my mother had page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] 38 TOGETHER. that fall; she has been confined to her bed ever since. It will be just five years this coming December. Mother knew Mrs. Lee when she was a girl. She had a wonderful voice for singing; sang in a church. Mildred Lee was left alone, some accident or over-exertion brought on her disease." I go out of the bookstore, with my arm full of "' Cosmos," and my head full of resolutions, and the little bell in my heart rings out louder than ever, whatsoever, whatsoever. I pass around the corner, and I hear a child crying bitterly. I: turn to see what is the matter. - "Oh dear!" said the girl, covering her eyes with her old apron and sobbing convulsively, "I've lost the money, and father will whip me, and mother won't have ally bread." "What money, child?" "Oh, the five cents for the bread. I held it tight in my hand, but as I was crossing the street the horses came so fast. I ran as hard as I could: a big fat woman ran too, and she pushed me so hard, I fell against the curb-stone and dropped the money, and we 'll have no bread to-day, and father will whip me." I take the child's hand, cross the street, go- around the corner and into a baker's, buy her two loaves of bread, and give her one little frosted pound-cake ; her tear-shower is over, and I can see in her misty blue eyes the prettiest little rainbow I ever saw, as she grasps the cake and tucks the loaves under her arm. I hand the baker three dollars, telling him t give the girl a package of bread-tickets. Let her come every day and get two loaves of bread. I go home with the girl; her story is true; her father is cross and gets drunk; her mother is patient and gentle -sick, down in a damp cellar, with no floor; they live all in one room, - their only faithful friend and sole daily companion grim poverty and sharp want. "Oh dear!"I say, as I go on my way home," I wish I had three aunts to leave me three fortunes." But I have n't a big fortune now. I have only enough to have every comfort for myself, but not if I give away much. That boy at the bookstore and I will be good friends; his name is Harry; but he does n't look at all as if he were any-relation to the venerable Henry, so much talked of by boy commentators. Boys in this world are a much-abused class; everybody finds fault with them : they're always huddling together on corners of streets, obstructing the crossings, making a noise when you want it still; coming in with creaking boots, slamming the door TOGETHER. 39 and racing up-stairs, just as you get in a pleasant doze'after a long walk in the sun, and a heavy headache; screaming vocifer- ously under your window about that lost ball or torn kite; up- setting your writing-desk and work-box in search of any stray marbles; or singing "John Brown " uproariously in your ears just when you are finishing that very particular business-letter, on the only clean sheet of note-paper you have in the house, - you would n't have a blot or mistake in it for anything. But be- fore you know it, instead of signing yourself "Yours respect- fully," you have written "Yours, John Brown." You sat up until midnight last night, mending pocketless jackets and kneeless pants, and to-day the hew pocket is stuffed again with every kind of heavy, hard, and sharp substance; you know it, you can see a kind of dromedary protuberance on the boy's left side. I should like to know what boys don't do. I cross the street, turn a cor- ner, and meet two elegant young ladies, with new brocades, bon- nets, and brooches. As they hold up their flounced and fluted dresses, one of the boy's wayward balls, fresh from gutterdom, hits the hem of one of the ladies' immaculate and elaborate un- derskirts. "Oh1 dear! what a perfect nuisance these boys are!" said the young beauty; "I think the police ought to keep boys out of the street, in some suitable place." I walked along, sorry for the soiled skirt, but laughing to myself, as I heard one of the boys who had overheard the young belle's complimentary remark, say, "I wish ladies would keep out the street; they're always in our way when we want to play; if we give them so much room for their hoops, they ought to give us chance for our balls." "Bully for you, Ned," said the boys, shouting. "I wish," con- tinued Ned, " the police would keep them in a big bandbox or a show-case, or parlor-window. or some suitable place, where they belong." I laughed again, as I thought of that suitable place, out of the street, where boys could be stowed and packed away, right-side- up. What a station that would be! Urchin station, or boys' re- treat! They 'd all be insane if they stayed in any one place long. I'm sorry for the boys. They're thrust out of the seats at con- certs; no matter how early they secure them, it is, "Come out of there, boys;" in the cars, it is, c"Get up there, boys; give these ladies seats ;" in the stages, it is, "Move along, boys, let these gen- tlemen sit down ;" if they play in front of your door, it is, "Clear out, boys;" if they climb a tree, it is, "' Get down there, boys." I wonder if boys don't get tired, or have the headache after run- page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] TOGETHER. ning their legs off all day, playing tag or ball. Would n't they like to sit down in a car, just as well as that fat old gentleman in the corner, who has done nothing since morning but sit in his easy-chair, smoking his pipe and reading his newspaper. But a boy is a kind of nondescript, with no assigned post, no predes- tined sphere; he is only a human preposition; he can go over, under, through, above, below, between, beneath, across, around, against, unto, instead of, or according to, the tastes of his elders anywhere, everywhere, -stand, sit, run or walk, vanish or ap- pear, to suit the community generally. Never mind, boys, your time will come, by and by, when you are nice-looking, genteel, promising young gentlemen. Cross papas, proud mammas, will be very polite to you; but especially pretty young ladies. Then, if you do happen to step on a lady's skirt and apologize, she will say, so sweetly, "Never mind, sir, it is of no consequence;" and she'll look at you with such a be- witching, forgiving, fascinating, radiant smile that you're almost glad you stepped on her dress. That smile will last you a week ; you dream of it, maybe. But I've almost fallen in love with my ,boy at the bookstore. I likethe boys,- noisome, frolicsome, rolicsome, venturesome, troublesome, go-ahead, harum-scarum, wide-awake fellows, -I like them ; God bless the boys! I meant to have bought some engravings for riyself to-day, but I have changed my mind. I want Faith and Hope and Trust, the Star of Bethlehem, and Evangeline. I'll see how my purse holds out. I never walk up Broadway but I see some pretty thing I want ever so much. I must have some of those statuary pictures; you get so much more of condensed aesthetics than in any other form. I stop at a picture-store, I buy a frame, a board and a glass to suit the frame; I call and get my friend Mary, who writes a beautiful hand, to write me on the centre of a plain sheet of white paper, just the size of the glass, the word "What- soever." She writes it so clear, graceful, and beautiful, it looks as if it were engraved. I go home, put the "Whatsoever " in the frame, hang it up over the mantle, just where I can see it the first thing when I awake in the morning. It isthe first frame I have hung in my room, and it will be the last I 'll ever take down; that word, 1"Whatsoever," was my mother's last will and testament,- her precious legracy. It is getting dark; I close the shutters, light the gas, sit by my grate, and look over the "Cosmos." There's a ring at the door. Mr. Carleyn has sent home my father's picture; he has made a TOGuETHER. 41 beautiful portrait of it; he knew my father. I hang the picture on the other side of the room, opposite a Whatsoever." Beneath my fitther's portrait is engraven i' Pleasures for evermore." i"Whatsoever" was the last word of my mother on earth, and "For evermore " is my father's voice from Heaven. "' Whatsoever" is positive, peremptory, practical, and "'For evermore" is beautiful, unchangeable, immortal; one is a real voice from the shadowy Past, and the other a sweet, long echo from the unseen, eternal hills. page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] 42 - TOGETHER, CHAPTER V. "COSMOS." "No mention shall be made of coral or of pearls: for the price of wisdom is above rubies." -JOB xxviii. 18. I HAVE seen, somewhere, either a pamphlet, or an article in some review, about diseases of the hip, written by Luke Boynton, M. D. It is satisfactory, scientific, scholarly, and shows a com- plete knowledge of the subject. In the directory, I find the ad- diess of Luke Boynton, M. D.,is 23 B Street. I detest anonymous letters. I have a pious, proud, particular horror of thein ; but I can't sign my own name, and safely, surely accomplish my present purpose. A man can do a thousand things a woman can't, without exciting suspicion or sarcasm, censure or criticism. So I must get a note to the Doctor, without my signa- ture. If it is not signed, he may neglect it, or not give it prompt attention. I aan told that great men always ianore anonymous communications. In as masculine style as I can assume, I write to Luke Boynton, M. D., requesting him to call at 275 L Avenue, examine the patient, prescribe treatment, and visit as often as the case requires. I enclose $10 as an examination fee, adding that further charges will be paid by Laurence Greenleaf. I adopt this sobriquet, retaining my own initials as a kind of quietus to my conscience, who is always making such a fiussy protest against anything that looks like humbug; she keeps me walkingu the crack. of conventionality, or she'll have me awake all nighlt. Henceforth Laurence Greenleaf shall be my left-hand man, hid- incg what my right hant loeth. I wait in a corner grocery-store next morning, while a boy takes the note to the Doctor's and comes back with the answer. He returns in a few moments, says the Doctor-was out, but he gave the note to the Doctor's wife, and she promised to hand it to him when he came in. I go home, open my volulnes of Cosmos, write on each fly-leaf, in plain large letters, in my assumed mas- TOGETHER. 43 culine hand," Ernest Heart." I do up the set in brown paper, and write upon the outside the same name, in the samq type, direct- in*r it to No. 8. I wait until eleven o'clock, put the lpackage under my shawl, my thick blue barege veil over my face, .ad start out in search of boy Number 2. I find one. I direct lim to take the package to No. 8, give it to the landlady, ask her to put it in Mr. Heart's roorm, on his table. How do I know the boy is honest? I watch near the corner, so that I can see the door of No. 8. He goes in, and soon comnes out without the bundle. I hand him -twenty-five cents. ask him where he lives, thinking he may be of some future service to me. He says, nowhere now; he is going this afternoon as a drummer-boy in the new regiment. ' So no secret of mine will ever be drummed out of himn. I put a five-dollar bill in his hind; it may be of some use to him. "If you please, ma'am, I 'd rather you 'd give that to my mnother; she'll nee(! it more than I," said the boy, as he hastily brushed his rouXh coat-sleeve across his eyes. I promise to go and see his mothel, but malke the boy keep the monley. He tells me his name is James Roegers. I have him wait a moment on the corner, while I step into the bookstore. I buy the smallest and prettiest little pocket-Bible I can find. I write his name on the first page, with a little leald-pencil I always carry in my pocket, and these vese se: "' HL; shall cover thee w'th His feathers, and under His wings shalt thou trust: His truth shall be thy shield and buckler." "Thou shalt not be afraid thr the terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day." "O God, the Lord, the strength of my salvation: Thou hast covered my head in the day of battle." I put the mark in the book, and turn down the leaf at the ninety-first Psalm. I give the boy the Bible, shake hands with 'him, and look back and watch him until he is out of sight. He treads the same earth now that I do; he tihinks about the same Heaven maybe; yet we may never more meet. - The boy may never see his, mother's fice again ; and I am crying right there in tie street. I have no mother now, and it seelms to me so sad, such a dreadfull thing to go away and leave a mother when one has one. I must have left my parasol yesterday at the bookstore; I go in there anJl see ; I buy a little ink-eraser. WLhile Harry is doing it up, a haughty, imperious-looking mall comes in, and say& to the bookseller, ' I want those volumes of Scotth Byron, Moore, and Coleridge, all to be rebound. The books in my library must be bound and lettered alike; " and the man looked over the book- page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] " TOGETTIER. shelves, and purchased three dozen more volumes of cyclopaedias, histories, biographies, and dictionaries, ordering their covers all to be taken off, and rebound in the same brown morocco. As the man went out of the bookstore, Harry said, "That will make five- hundred new volulnes we have bound over for Mr. Whimser." ' What an old granny he is!" thqught I, "to want all his books, with their diversity of talent and rare indi- viduality of style, colored and covered alike. I 'd as soon think of requiring all my gentlemen friends to come and see me in new black suits, and all the ladies to visit me in brown dresses! He'll waste enough money on those extra covers to buy a small, choice library for some poor student." As Mr. Whimser went out, he brushed contemptuously aside a little ragged boy, who was holding out his thin hand for, a penny to buy some bread with, and then walks on and goes into the bank, to deposit a thousand dollars in gold, saying to himself; "I can't give anything to idle beggars these hard timnes." I am home again. I fix the window-shade so that I can see out, but no one see me. I watch for somebody; 'tis the first time I have watched for any one since mother died. How blessed the heart that has always some one to watch and wait for! I hear carriage-wheels rapidly rolling over the pavement. There comes the carriage; that is a superb horse and splendidly managed; he stops at the moment, promptly, suddenly. He is a very wise-look- in horse, though he has not quite so intellectual a face as the artist gave to the picture of Washington's horse, exhibited years ago in the much-lamented Crystal Palace-; that had an expres- sion more rare and ideal than many living men's. I think if it were a true portrait of the illustrious animal, it must have been a little flattered. The longer you gazed at it, you felt that it could understand and sympathize with you. The carriage stops first at 271; then goes on again slowly-- stops at 275. It is a doctor's carriage, and a tall, dignified-look- ing man gets out and walks up the steps. As he turns his head a little, to ring the bell, I can just see one side of his face; I should think he had black wavy hair. As he goes in, I think that is Luke Boynton, M. D. I sit watching the door for half an hour, until he comes out; his face is very light for such dark hair and eyes. A little child has tumbled down on the walk; she is not hurt, only frightened a little. He catches up the child, gives her akiss, puts her down tenderly on the walk, hurries into the carriage and drives off rapidly. That is Dr. Boynton, I TOGETHER. 45o say. With all his pressure of business, if he can stop to kiss a strange child, I think I'll trust my patient with him. "Laurence Greenleaf," I say, ' you have selected the right man this time." Prudence Potter drops a stitch in her knitting as she looks out of the front window, and says,-"That man can't be much of a doctor, if he can stop to waste his time with other people's young ones. You would n't catch old Dr. Koorall to stop a minute for anything, when he goes to see the sick, - his time is too vallible." Just after the doctor goes, my drummer-boy, James^Rogers, walks by, in his new suit of blue uniform. As Prudence sees him walk- ing ,rapidly do wn-street, she says, -"There's so many of these shiftless fellows around, I 'm so glad we 're goin' to get rid of some of them. There's always such a set of loafers in the street, it's a good thin( to have a war to clear some of them out." Poor old Mrs. Rogers sits by her window and sees James go, - crying as if her heart would break. When she has seen the last look of his cap, as lie turns round the corner, she goes to bed with one of her terrible sick headaches; any great excitement always brings them on. How shall I find out how many visits Dr. Boynton makes? I must know, so as to pay the bill promptly. I would n't have him think that Laurence Greenleaf was a sneak, or didn't pay his debts. I might ask Prudence Potter; she'd be sure to know just when and how often the Doc- tor comes, but I would n't dare get acquainted with her, - she'd certainly fathom some of my plots, and thus puzzle, perplex, and disappoint very much Mr. Laurence Greenleaf. I know what I'll do. I 'll get Harry to call around every other evening, and see how Mildred Lee is. He'll know about the Doctor's visits. I 'd give more for one Harry, with his fear- less frankness and incorruptible honesty, than for five hundred Prudence Potters. But lMildred Lee must need money. How will she pay for prescriptons, potions, and plasters? I write a ote in my assumed masculine style, directing it to Mildred Lee, enclosing $10 for the little incidental expenses of sickness, and signing it, "Laurence Greenleaf." I put on a stamp, send it by Bridgret, who is going right by-the post-office, oin her way to the ferry. Bridget can't read a word of writing; so my secret is safe there. I have been so busy thinking about other people, that all my things are getting outl of order. I am going to take everything out of my bureau, and arrange all the drawers. If there's any- thing makes me uncomfortable, it is to have my drawers out of order. page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] " TOGETIiER. Ernest Heart came home Wednesday night, half sick and wholly discouraged. He walks up-stairs, softly and slowly; he does n't wish to meet anybody. "I can't stay here long," he says to himself. "I 'll go to- morrow. I won't stay anywhere where I can't pay; I'll live out-doors first. I can get no more copying now, and no fpay for my articles." And he throws a rejected manuscript contemptu- ously on the floor, as he says, "There 's another monument for Fame's Greenwood. I 'll never offer it again. My whole heart is in the book. Thlere are embalmed my dead hopes; there flit my ideals, like beautiful visions. Child of my brain, I had hoped to see it wreathed and crowned. Josiall January -says the book is full of platitudes. Platitudes!- that settles it. I wonder if he ever thinks of any other word. And he a poet, too. I thought he would find some chord there, to which his heart would respond. If a critic wants 'to be very com- prehensive, very discriminating, remarkably sharp and wise, he 'll be sure, he'll be sure to say the book is fill of platittdes. But I an borne down with a heavy weight of obligation I can't meet. I Debt is a demon to haunt, a ghost to mock, a scorpion to sting. 1 would saw wood, put in coal, clean the streets, shovel snow, - do anything to get out of this galling, oppressing, mnadden- ing, stinging debt.. It is bad enough to owe a man, but to owe a woman, whose life is already worn and worried with p1erpetual planning to meet to-day's expenses, pay yesterday's bills and pro- vide to-morrow's provisions, - to owei her fifteen dol!ars, for five weeks' lodging and breakfaszt, when I have n't five cents more in my pocket than I had five weeks ago! That fifteen dollars is to me a fortune, immense, inaccessible. Fifteen dollars is more to -him who has n't a cent than fifteen thousand to one who has his thousands stored in the bank, away from mo)th and rust." Ohl! how the ethereal folds of Ernest Heart's ideal self were being fast consumed by the moth of want, - the fine gold of his rare intellect rusting away under the canker of care. He sits down in one corner, as if to hide away 'fromn himself. The, room is cold; there's no fire in his grate; his head aclied so hard that morning, he ate no breakfast; he has eaten nothing since. Oh, how his head aches now! If the great Tempter came to our adorable Redeemerwwhen he had long fasted, might he not come to Ernest Heart, as, hun- gry and weary, he climbs the dark mountain (of suffering? He did come, and whispered to his sensitive, stricken nature, that TOGETHER. 47 could not beg and would not borrow: "There 's no such thing as Providence. Fools and scoundrels lave ease, rest, comfort, and gold to spare, while you, Ernest Heart, forsaken, forgotten, and forlorn, perish with hunger. Rich fools, that never read and never think, buy large valuable libraries, while your hungry soul is denied even its coveted '4 Cosmos." Give up your foolish trust in that false Providence, which deserts you. patient and worthy, and lavishes fame and fortune on the unthankful and the evil." Ernest Heart closed his eyes a moment, and said, almost audi- bly, and with a deep groan, "Get thee behind me, Satan." He looked up at last, and saw the bundle on the table. "There 's some mistake," thought he. "I have bought nothing for three months: only one pocket-handkerchief and two collars. I'll take it down-stairs and ask about it." As he takes it up, he sees his own name written on the outside of the bundle;- "Ernest Heart." He tears off the wrapper; there's a rmhole pile of books. He reads on the back of each volume, "Cosmos "; he lets the lbooks fiall on the floor, and bursts into tears. Poor Ernest Heart, lie camea-snear listening to the Tempter's voice,--"Curse God and die." He even bean --to think, last night, as he stood on the Battery, he would like to plunge into the deep, dark water, and be borne alone on its silent tide, forgotten, and float off into obliv- ion, live and breathe no more, and run the fearful risk of landilg uncalled on the Eternal shore. He shuddered now as he thought of it. There was his coveted, longred-for ' Cosmos." He could hardly have been happier with (the universe, all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them, at his feet. Was not there in those five volumes the kingdomn of thourght, witlh its wondrous glory? His, his "Cosmos." The Tempter had taken him weary and hungry up into an exceeding high mountain of suffering, but the dark shadow of his satanic robes was drooping behind that Ernest Heart. Let him weep awhile; it will do him good. At last he gathers up the volumes, and opens the first. His name is written on the blank page, and with it; these words, "He shail deliver thee in six troubles, yea in seven there shall no evil touch thee." "That was mother's favorite verse," thought he; "she repeated it over the Sabbath morning before she died." As he turned over the'leaf, there fell out and dropped on the floor a five-dollar bill. He picks it up, opens the second volume, and there is his name, and another verse, and another five-dollar bill; and this is the verse: "No mention shall-be made of coral, or of page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] 48 TOGETHER. ? pearls, for the price of wisdom is above rubies." There was a verse and a five-dollar bill in each volume. 'The words written in the fifth book were these: "For we have not a High Priest that cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities, but was in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin." Ernest Heart takes the money, five five-dollar bills, lays it in a little pile together, counts it over, looks at it, and does n't know how to act. He dances up and down, almost wild with excite- ment, as he puts the money into his empty pocket-book, goes down-stairs, asks Mrs. Cater if the boy- from the book-store brought that bundle. "Oh, no, sir," said Bridget, coming up-stairs just then; "'he was a strange boy." '"I should like to see him," said Mr. Heart. "That you can't, sir," said Bridget, "for he told me he was going to be a drummer-boy in the R regiment that went away this afternoon at five. I saw the men go." Ernest Heart pays Mrs. Cater fifteen dollars for his five weeks' lodging and breakfast, and, with a light step and lighter heart, goes back up-stairs, saying to himself, "If the boy is really gone, I can't find out anything; but I have got the books, and I did n't steal them'." He takes two crackers out of his pocket and a piece of cheese from his closet, and, with his keen appetite and light heart, fares sumptuously for once on these savory and satis- factory delicacies, for there is a rich repast on the table before him, - his dainty, delicious dessert, that feast of pure reason, that flow of great soul, - his well-done, most excellent "Cosmos." There is no fire in his grate; he wraps himself up in thb bed- clothes to keep warm, his hlead bolstered up with three pillows, and reads the golden flow of Aristotle's eloquence, solves with Humboldt the " holy problem of the Universe," learns of the stars that are new, and the stars that are vanished, sure that some new morning-star has risen in his soul, and the star-wormwood "has vanished forever. He reads in volume first, the Translator's Pireface, the Author's Preface, and the Summary, closes that volume, takes up the second, opens to modern prose-writers, reads of philosophy, physics, and poetry, and closes the book at the eighty-second page, singing with Goethe, - "Ein- sanfter Wind vom blauen Himmel weht, Die Myrte still, und hoch der Lorbeer steht." He lays the volume under his pillow, and falls asleep. 'Tis * . TOGETHER. 49 the first time for weeks that he has not dreamed of a past, present, or future board-bill. He dreamed that his room was flll of "Cosmos," and that he had written them himself, and the publisher offers him copyright, twenty cents a copy, andt he dreams of the marvellous old man, finishing the last page of his greatest work on his eighty-ninth birthday,- that wondrous old man, ninety years ago a child in the gray old castle of Tegel, whose young eyes grew wise and bright: as they gazed on pine grove and gar- den, and sailed in fancy over the 1" blue bosom of the Teogel lake," or climbed the old-fortress of Spandau. He dreams of the oaken coffin, lying " under the solemn dome alone with God." He sees behind it still that portrait wreathed with palms and flowers, and he hears in dreams the choirs of worshipping A(res chanting still the grand old choral--" Be comforted and most happy." As the earliest sunshine comes through the open shutter, it ( rests upon the covers of his "Cosmos " as they lie on the bed, and wreathes its brilliant aureola round the name of Humboldt, with its clear golden type. Ernest Heart opens his eyes, sees the sunshine and the "Cos- mos," and he hears, as if coming back to him in the sunshine, the last words of the dying old man: "How grand those rays,- they seem to beckon earth to Heaven;" and he sings from the del ths of a happy heart, - -"Quiet fi'om God how beautiful to keep, This treasure the All-Merciful hath given, To feel when we awake and when we sleep, Its incense round ua like a breath from Heaven." ' '" I "(-* page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] 50 TOGETHER. CHAPTER VL CONSCIENCE VERSUS DREAMS. "' And let the counsel of thine own heart stand; for there is no man more faith- ful to thee than it. "For a mmn's mind is sometimes wont to tell him more than seven watchmen that sit above in a high tower." --ECCL. xxxvii. 13, 14. MY student is out on Thursday morning, bright and early, :; looking in the window at the engravings. He coughs still; and ::ii his coat is as shabby as ever; but he is actually whistling"i Annie 'i Laurie" which the organ-grinder is playing in front of the book- store, while a child beside lhim Aings in a sweet, shrill voice. He looks almost as bright as I did the morning my father came v back' alive, overland, from California, when we had expected him for more than ten days in the steamer, which had been so long due we were sure something terrible had happened.' I did n't know a man's face could change so much. He is looking at that new engraving in the window-"The Past and the Fu- a ture"; he likes the sweet, sad, half-veiled face of the Past; but : I know he thinks the upturned, earnest, questioning, hopeful look of her younger sister, Future, more beautiful, as she rests her head on her hand, and watches and waits, while the Past still holds her arm about her, and seems to look off into the dark billows of eternity behind her, - the other -watching some morn- ing-star bathing itself in the dawn's blue and roseate light. I walk up street; I am going to thetailor's for a piece of a certain shade of broadcloth, for which I have searched in vain through the stores. While the man cuts it off for me, some one behind me says, "That suit of Mr. Ernest Heart's is not worth repair- ing, sir." I go home, take out my writing-desk, and write-this' note to the tailor, in my bold assumed masculine style. "SIR, - -Make a suit of clothes- coat, vest, and pants of your finest broadcloth, for Mr. Ernest Heart, taking the pattern from the suit of his you are repairing. I enclose a check for TOGETHER,. $25. The rest of the bill will be paid when the suit is done, LAURENCE GREENLEAF." This I send by a boy, telling him to ask the tailor when the clothes will he finished. They will be done by Wednesday morning. I go out again to mail a letter I finished last night, and I see Ernest Heart getting into a car. He has one volume of " Cosmos" tucked under his arm; he is goingf to allow himself the luxury of riding to his lecture this morning, and he ' read on the way I am home again, alone with my grate. I can't bear to have siades, shat out the broad light, til tile soft, subdued grate-glow s~emstou fi t he room; it is in tone with my feelin/; I m thinking about myself; Louise Grenvile--what I'd like to be- uwLat I'd Iike to i do. A few days before mother died she said, "Louise, I 'm going away; but the same God, who is my Ibest Frienrd, wvill take icare of' you ; do not wfear mourning. I shall not be (lead, but living iD a better country. I shall still be near atnd watclh over you.- I fieel th:xt I shall; but, Louise, never ,-ave a duty wei en at is in your path, and you 'II surely Lel God' Land clasping yours. Never allow the tlouaht fora moent God doe s ,'t iotmice or gide us in little tyingrs, and you can se: duty thee to fthce ; she will (o before you by daytime in a pillar ot' clIld and;;in a pillar of fir'e by night." 'To morrow, I said to myself, I must arrange my room. I'll get some wood engravings, one fine oil-painting, a writing-desk, some books, and oine curtains. Ill make a delight/ul room of my, little parlor.I How many comforts I have,-r- money, books, and two rooms all to myself. I love firiends, 'eoy a gtood chat, sparkling reparee land intellectual conversation.. I like society, but I must have solitude at times, when I can be all alone. Solitude) is dew and sunshine and 'sky and air to the soul's best, sweetbst flowers. Society kindles, cheers, in- spires; Iaut soitude does more' like nighrlt to the weary body, 't is abe soul's delightthl time of re~st, widen stars of contemplation shine. Tlmen we talk filee to thre with ourselves. Great thoghts, great hopes, great deeds, great Joy are born in' liud. Aloe with God, behind the veil of the Past, within tle veil of the Ftture. tfiere is Thought's altar, there herebudr ding olive, there her golden candlestick. Sometimes I want to sit alone by my grate, and thlii' of page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] 52 TOGETHER. many things with which no stranger intermeddleth; then I like : solitude and self; then I want no: espionage, if I wish to brush my hair, sit and think, or write or do everythinr or nothing, and no companion save Laurence Greenleaf. One of these rooms must be exclusively my own; there will be my sanctum. I always thought I could make a room of my own very attractive, if I had the means; now I have the means. It is evening again. I have lighted ,my gas; I sit by 'lly grate in my mother's chair, thinking how delightful I'll make that room look to-morrow. I am impatient for to-morrow-to come. As I kneel down on the rug in front of my grate, I see in the glowing coals visions enchanting, of ornate ormolu, choice statu- ary, rare bijouterie, and unique parian. But the door-,bell rings. 'T is Harry; he has been over to see Mildred Lee, and has come to tell me about her. She has been rather worse to,- day. The landlord threatened to turn her ollt to-morrow, be- cause she can't pay for the room. Poor Mildred! Harry says she can't have a fire in her room; the chimney smokes so, it makes her cough. I wish I could send her my grate, but I sup- pose I'd have to send the chimney too. The Doctor says Mildred can't get better without a fire. The walls of her ioom are very damp, the roof overhead leaks so badly; then there's such a noise in the stable in the rear all night, she can't sleep. Damp, smoke, noise, cold,-- there's enough to make anybody sick,- a quartette of evils with which even Doctor 2Esculapius or his famous daughter Hygeia mfiaht battle in vain. The Doctor has made five visits; I must send him to-morrow a five-dollar bill; he sha'n't think that Laurence Greenleaf does n't pay his bills. Harry says his patients are all of the wealthier class, and his hands are full from early in the morning until late at night. I wish I could do something for Mildred Lee. I went to a prayer- meeting last night; I have n't been before since mother died. I Can't -bear to go without her. As I went ink an old Deacon was praying, "May We so live as we shall wish we had done when we come to die." The prayer moved me, impressed me. I have heard it ever since I was a little child; and I never go to bed without making the prayer. My father used to repeat it at morning worship. I used to kneel in a little chair close beside him, and wonder what that meant., I asked mother one morning about it, and she said "that when we came to die, all that we could take comfort in looking back -upon, would be the good we had done; that then the mem- TOGETHER. 53 ory of wealth possessed, or'luxury enjoyed, would fade away like a very small cloud in the sunset-sky." I never fobrgot her words, and I've never made a prayer since she died without repeating these words: "May I so live as I shall wish I had done when I come to die." As I bid Harry good-nioght, I wish I could do something for Mildred Lee. But what shall I do? I look up, and in the bright fire-light I see my "Whatsoever " light up with a generous glow, plainer than ever. I must do whatsoever. And that means in my Imperial Dictionary, all that-the whole that - the hand finds to do." The fact is this: Mildred Lee must die where she is. Fire, food, comfort, care, milght save her. I have these; so have others; but no one living will do anything to restore or help her. I can't shut my eyes on this truth ; it confronts me like a great grim spec- tre. I may save a life, or the life will be lost. What a glorious chance for a girl of seventeen to save a life; it may be a little joy-'ell in my heart for years. Won't it be one of the things I shall wish I had done when I come to die? Missionaries go thousands of miles, leave friends and comfort, risk danger and death, to save others; no one thinks them strange, peculiar, Quixotic. No; they are missionaries. Have they any higher code to guide, happier Heaven to reward, or holier hope to inspire them? Is it unnatural, peculiar, incredible for me to stay quietly at home, risk nothing, brave nothing, endure noth- ing, save a little less of ease and luxury, to try to save one life? It is a "poor miserable world and we are all poor creatures," as Mrs. Gummidge says, if I can't do as much as that. Are a few rare people, self-denying and self-sacrificing, elected to weary their headls and pierce their hands in doing all the good they can, while the rest of us, in unsoiled gloves and soft slippers, take the most delightful care of ourselves, and, if any superfluous crumbs of comfort do full from our overladen table of luxury, we bestow them upon earth's comfortless, care-encumbered ones! "Give to him that needs," is the sweet text of Nature's whole beautiful Sermon, and the flower gives fragrance. I've no love for a flower that yields no perfume. The star gives its little glow, the bird its little song, the dew a drop for the thirsty bud; the geranium, that has no flower in all its green life, gives its balm. The richer the noble tree grows in beauty and foliage, the more shade it gives weary, tired men; the cooler the breeze it gels from Heaven, the more it fans the pilgrim's hot cheek, and page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] 54 TOGETHER. refreshes the burning earth; the wider spreads its beauty, the more weary ones it gathers to its quiet rest, the more honeless birds nestle and sing in its branches. So, the more the richer foliage of our sunnier lives grows and spreads over our sheltered, happy head-, the more weary, burning hearts should find sacred shelter and sweet shade beneath our care. Hearts that have no roof-tree should cling, and clasp, and nestle, and sing in the bend- ing branches of our great kind souls, and the golden sunshine will gleam down through each opening leaf of our life, and birds of paradise give us their sweet songs in sorrow's night. It is very easy to think eloquent and generous thoughts, but it is n't so easy to act generously. ,But must I give lMildred Lee that room of mine, and I sleep on the sofa in that other room - that precious little parlor? Mildred Lee has no comfbrt- ab'e room. I have two. She lias poverty, prescriptions, pain. I can have delights, dresses, delicacies. ,She wears the triple crown of thorns; I the crown of comfort. Can I keep p!enty- she perish-fi'om need? But I 'd rather give up an3'tliin!r than that room. I look up and there's the Whatsoever" again, just as plain as ever. But it is a great step for me to take, and to- morrow, I wa. going to make that room so delightful! But if it is my duty, I 'll do it. I'd like to see that pillar of cloud in the daytime, and the pillar of fire by night. TOGETHER. 55 CHAPTER VII. THE PILLAR OF FIRE. "He giveth His beloved sleep." - PSALMS Cxxvii. 2. "And when he talked with me, behold I looked by little and little upon him before whom I stood." - ESDRAS vi. 29. IT is only Thursday morning, but it seems a year since last nlight. I feel as if I had been through a severe illness, had an earthquake-shock, or been out in a perilous storm at ea. I looked in the glass this morning, to see if some of my hair had n't turned gray with the fright I had. I fell asleep last night like a tired child, and was soon in a profound slumber. Suddenly I dreamed the world was burning up, everything was consunmed, nobody left alive but me, and I was struggling with oceans of fire. I thought that the Greenwood bell from its arch of flame was tolling all the time, and that a hundred chariots of fire were winding throulgh the avenues. 'I'The trees were no longer green, but all on fire; everything was burninmg I awoke, hearing the cry of "Fire! fire! fire!" loud and shrill, under my windows, and the furious flames were shining like day- liglit in my room. I thought that this hlouse was burning, and I left alone to the merciless flame.. For a moment I enduied that horrid thoulght, as I closed my eyes and stood without screaming or moving, and almost stopped breathing. I heard the rattle of the hurrying, clattering engine, the hoarse, heavy roar of the firemen's trumpet, the startling cry of excited men - - - There's the fire! there's the fire!" and the foreman's voice, Play away, boys!"I opened my eyes at last, and looked out of the window. It was not this house; it was across the way; 275 was burning. I flew down-stairs and out on the sidewalk among the mass of people blocking up the pavement, and said to a policeman, "Run quick, sir! there's a sick young woman up-stairs there" over the front door! page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] 56 TOGETHER. I saw the flames bursting out of the lower windows. Quicker than lightning, up went the ladder, and faster than lightning a fireman ascended its perilous rounds; but oh! so slow fobr me, as I stood wringing my hands, crying and wishing, oli, how bitterly! that I had taken Mildred Lee away that very day. Bursting open the window, the fireman seized her from the bed, threw a blanket over'her, and- in his safe, strong arms bore her rapidly down the ladder. A mnoment more, and no foot ascending that ladder could have ever returned. The walls reeled and fell with a terrible crash, crushing the fallen ladder beneath them, and the frightened crowd rushed precipitately back. The family living in the house had gone away to spend the night, and Mildred was left all alone. The first she knew of the fire, she was almost suffocated with the smoke in her room. She was too faint anld exhausted to scream loud enough to be heard by the firemen outside, who supposed 'the people were all out. It was in the- dead of night\ the street was quiet, and the fire had progressed rapidly before it was discovered. It was near electiontime, and the boys had been burning tar-barrels nearly every night for a week. The little boy in the house had that day almost filled the cellar with shavings, to keep for his future bon- fires and barrel-burnings. The fiont grating for the coal had been carelessly left open, and some gentleman passing may have ignited the flames by tfhrowing down a half-burned cigar. "Bringher up here," I said to the fireman, as I led the way up-stairs and into my room.; and he laid Mildred tenderly on my bed* "I have seen duty face to face ; 't is the ' pillar of fire' by night," I said to myself, as I leaned over and kissed the pale forehead. Her heart was beating violently, her cheek was flushed, but a smile was on her lips as I gave her a few drops of wine. The words came struggling up firom a grateful heart, - "Thank God! I am safe; you have saved my life." These words, " you have saved my life," were the sweetest music I ever heard. She looked like a being more of heaven than earth, as she lay there, fair, fragile, frail. I was so glad, so thankful, she was sale. Hers is a nature, I know by her face, sensitive and susceptible; and with such there is often a- strange power in music to charm away mhe effects of unusual or terrible excitement. I went to the piano and sung,- TOGETHER. 57 "Open thou the crystal fountain Whence the healing waters flow; Let the fiery, cloudy pillar Lead meiall my journey through: Strong Deliverer, Be thou still my strength and shield." And then J burst forth with Montgomery's beautiful song,- "Yea, I will extol thee, 4 Lord Of Life and Light; For Thine arm upheld me, Turned my foes to flight. "Grief may, like the pilgrim, Through the night sojourn, Yet shall joy to-morrow , With the sun return. "Thee my ransomed powers Henceforth shall adore; Thee my great Deliverer, Bless for evermore." Mildred lay so very quietly, I went on singing - "Give to: the winds thy fears; Hope and be undismayed; t God hears thy sighs and counts thy tears, God shall lift'up thy head. "Through waves through clouds and storms He gently clears thy way; Wait thou His time: so shall this night Soon end in joyous day. "Still heavy is thy heart? Still sink thy spirits down? Cast off the weight, let fear depart, Bid every care be gone. . "Where wilt thou cast thy care? Upon an erring heart, Which hath its own sore ills to bear, And shrinks from sorrow's dart? "No! place thy trust above This shadowy realm of night, In Him whose boundless power and love Thy confidence invite. "His mercies still endure When skies and stars grow dim; His changeless promise standeth sure; Go, cast thy care onl Him." 4 page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] 58 . ^TOGETHER.- "Of all the thoughts of God, that are Borne inward unto souls afar, Now tell me if there any is For gift or grace surpassing this,- 'He giveth His beloved sleep? ' "More softly than the dew is shed, Or cloud is floated overhead, ' He giveth His beloved sleep.' But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber, when ' He giveth His beloved sleep.' " Mildred was asleep. I stand by her bedside a moment and look at her;- her complexion is pure and transparent, her feat- ures almost statuesque, her soft brown hair lay in rich glossy waves. There was that meek, subdued, patient look about the mouth suffering so often gives. One arm lay outside the cover- lid; it was symmetrical, artistic, and the hand was delicately moulded. As she lay there asleep and helpless, I was glad I could watch over her and do her good. I fell asleep at last, on the sofa; we both slept late. I had Mildred's breakfast brought to my room, - some toast and tea. and some broiled pigeon. It was quite -fortunate that it happened so. Peter had shot some pigeons and brought them home the night before. I would n't let Mildred talk much that morning ; she was so weak and exhausted after last nighlt's fright and fatigue. She wondered how she came there in my room, seemed to be overcome with -a sense of her helplessness and dependence. What was she to do now? Where lay her weary head? It took me some time to convince her that I had given her more than a night's shelter, and a few hours' asylum from the flames. I was a stranger. She had no claim, no right to throw her helplessness On my care or protection, she said, and shiburst into tears. I told her that God, and not I, had laid her on that bed in my room; that, so long as I had a home she should have a roof to shelter her; that I had funds left in my hands, only as a trust, and she had a right to them. More had been given me than I had given or could give her. I let her think, and she did think for a while,- I did n't undeceive her for some time, - that some rich relative- or friend had placed funds in my hands for charitable purposes. It was partly true; only my liberal Heavenly Father had given me the means, and, no charitable person. Yet I was as much and more accountable forightly and benevolently using the funds than if they-were really lent me by some living human TOGETHER. ' 59 friend. But she: had an independent, help-herself nature, and still she lay there puzzled and perplexed, and trying to form some plan bz which, should she even partially' recover, she could take care of herself. And then I told her about Harry's call that ht,nd my thoughts; how I had wished for the pillar of re, and how the pillar of fire came at last- About ten o'lock I heard approaching carriage-wheels, I knew the sound of those wheels. I looked out and saw the Doc- tor's horse; he drove up to where 275 was, but 275 was not, - there was only ac smokin ruin. He stopped, looked out and in around, with a strange, startled, surprised 1pok. I ran down- stairs, and just as he was turnin i', p t i his horse's head to come away, I stepped out on the walk and said, ', Your patient is here, sir." He came p, folloked me in, and u the stairs, and into the room 6 Good-moning, Miss Mildred, said he, rubbing his hands and holding then a moment over the grate, to warm them a little, be- re app'oaching h is patient; and then going up and feelin- her pulse, he ssai. a, lK..a, -5 ' e pulse, le said : lad t, flnd you in such comfortable quarters- it IS time that e mo-y chi..ne was burned ut. The fire could n't sa ie b' .-;^ .an to tear down that old, leaky roof." slipped out of the room. When I came back the limb was fixed all right again. The Doctor had some new apparatus for drawing it down with a weight and pulley, and she was to keep it there in that position some time. As the Doctor sat there talking to Mildred, I Was sure I could - trust him,---it was a face witl a musical eye. Some people I know can sing, by the looks of their eyes, and Iwas quite sure the Doctor could sifg by the look of his eye. He turned around to me, taking it f'or :granted that I had something, to do with his patient, because I w!as there with her, and said, "1 She wants all the sleep she can have, light, nou shing food, and bright ire;. and he gave me a little powder, to be dissolved in half a tumbler of water, and she was to take a teaspoonful every three hours, Therewas another powder to be taken dry on the tongue, about eight o'clock in the evening. After he went away, Mildred said, if Doctor Boynton's mother had had a prophetic knowledge of his future life, she couldn't have given him a better name than Luke; for if he had taken as good care of all hisi patients as he had of her, he might well be called , the beloved! physician "; and she told me how often he had dropped out her medicine and administered it himself, and given- her those numerous little attentions so necessary to an inva- page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] 60 TOGETHER. lid's convalescence and comfort; but which in her lonely, friend- less lot no other hand had ever given. Through painful, weary days, and dreary, sleepless nights, his voice had given the only cheering words, the only balm of consolation, the only whisper of hope; and once, after watching beside her during a long severe paroxysm of pain, he had administered a gentle anodyne and left, and when she awoke she found on the" pillow beside her,ther Bi!kle open at these words, "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not waijt." I knew that a great, good soul had come and gone as Luke Boynton vanished. I say Luke Boynton, though I had never be- fore met the Doctor face to face; and of course when I talk with Mildred about him, or address him personally, I say very digni- t fiedly and respectfully, Dr. Boynton;" but, somehow, ever since I saw him stoop down and kiss that little unknown child, I have / always thought of him as Luke. l There is an unseen, real aureola around some noble heads,- / an invisible, spiritual atmosphere about some elevated natures, of J which you are as sure, when they are in your presence, as you are of the presence of heliotrope, or tuberose, or violet, in your darkened chamber. Though the flower's sweet face is unseen, you know it is there. There was a charm, a thrill, a power, in Luke Boynton's voice. The voice is the golden ring and musical test of the true pure heart. There breathes in its sweet, ballny tones the distilled fragrance of the soul. The deep, eloquent word may be the key-note of the fine-strung spirit's lyre. By the word's thrill and tune you can tell the modulations harmoni- ous, or notes discordant, of a fine-strung, elevated, or of a dark, treacherous soul. Life's sympathetic balm, its rarest melody, begins and ends with the key-note of good, kind words. Around my soul's hearth-stone, no Mr. or Mrs. ever sit,. There, in their arm-chairs, are a cicle of friends whose names are James Russell Lowell, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and Charlotte Bronte. Since first they stood at Inspiration's font, and Fame's holy baptism kissed their brow, they have been each Fame's simple child, - they know no other name but plain James Russell, Henry Wadsworth, Elizabeth Barrett, and Charlotte. As Doctor Boynton bent his brow to receive a kiss from that lowly child, it was almost as sweet a baptism as Fame's holy kiss on the kneeling brow of genius; and now I would as soon think of him as other than Luke, as I would talk of Mr. George Washington's patriotism, Mrs. Victoria's crown, Mr. Napoleon's I TOGETHER. 61 Mexico, or Mr. Byron's poetry. I have thought a long time about this short call of the Doctor's, but the briefest interview with a good, great soul may be the beginning of years of kindly ntercourse. The great river of friendship often winds away back among the green hills of memory to the tiniest source of some little half-hidden, half-forgotten moment. page: 62-63[View Page 62-63] 62 TOGETHER; - CHAPTER VIIL DISCOVERIES IN THE TERRESTRIAL SPACES. "A gift is as a precious stone in the eyes of him that hath it," - PRov. xvii. 8. ERNEST HEART comes home about four o'clock Wednesday afternoon ; sees a bundle on the table. "Oh," says he, "I sup- pose my clothes have come home. I wonder if Mr. Brooks has taken all the threadbare out of them?" He opens the bundle, sees the new suit, coat, vest, and pants, of the finest black broad- cloth, stylishy made and handsomely trimmed. As he reads his * name on the package, takes up the clothes, looks at them, he- tlhinks, "I wonder if I have a fairy godmother, hidden some- where behind my chimney?" and then, all at once, there comes a mortified, grieved look on his face, as he says, "Am I so de- pendent, helpless, good-for-nothing, that I must owe a stranger fobr the clothes I wear? A book is an imperial gift you can make even to a royal soul. A king need n't scorn it. But clothes! Am I so threadbare that, as I walk the streets of a crowded city, I am so very conspicuously shabby and forlorn, that I claim the pitying gaze of passing charity? What is my poop life worth? I would rather walk in rags, honestly earned and owned, than move about in costhest garments given by charity. Oh, inother! mother! who bore me, and so fondly loved me, did you think the boy you loved would ever come to this? I wish I were with you among the white-robed ones, who have need of nothing; " and then, with a sob, he takes the gift and lays it away out of his sight. There's a knock at the door. It is Willie Cater, Mrs. Cater's little nephew. He says, "Please, hear me my Sund y-school card, Mr. Heart." U Ernest Heart takes the card and hears the child. There are three verses on the card, TOGETHER. 63 It is more blessed to give than to receive. A gift is as a precious stone in the eyes of him that hath it; whither- soever it turneth it proslereth. Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above and cometh down from the Father of Ligats. Little Willie repeats the words, in his sweet, clear, child-voice, and pauses a moment and says, "Mr. Heart, does Dod div us everything? Mr. Heart says, "Yes." "Well, see, Mr. Heart, I dot a new toat; Dod div it to me." Ernest Heart takes the child up in his arms and hugs him, and says, "Yes, Willie, God has given you and I some new clothes." Nillie," says Mrs. Cater in the hall,- " Willie, come out; don't trouble Alr. Heart." Mr. Heart gives him a kiss and lets him go; he hears the little feet going down the long stairs, and he says, i"Willie's faith is stronger than mine, but these words, ' Every good gift is from above,' have a new, strange consolation in them. I don't know but the ravens will come yet and feed me," he says, with a grave look in his eye, as he takes up the neglected gift and tries on the suit, walks up and down, looks in the glass on the bureau, then takes the glass down, stands it up in a chair, so that he can see his whole outward self, transformed, renewed, beautified, and says, Ernest Heart, you have never seen yourself before in a new complete suit of the finest black broadcloth; your outward maneis much improved." He puts on a clean new collar, brushes up his hair, smoothies his whiskers, and looks in the glass again, and blushes like a blooming girl when she looks in the glass and tries on her first party-dre-s,sand finds out for the first time how beau- tiful she is.- I don't know as there ever was a man who would own right up that he thought he was handsome; girls do some- times confess they know they are beautiful; but I do think the expression which came over his face, as he stood there robed in his new garments, and looking- down at his table at his new set of Cosmos, was a very beautiful, bright, rare expression. His face had a great deal of soul in it. Such faces are often quite p'ain, and then at times very beautiful, like a cathedral at night when all the lights are kindled and the organ peals its deep music; it is very radiant and beautiful. Some dark, rainy day, when the lights are out, the music silent, the shutters closed, you think the cathedral not so very beautiful after all. You pass it without page: 64-65[View Page 64-65] " TOGETHER. looking up; you go by and never turn back to gaze at it; so, when the cathedral soul lights up, and all its stops and pipes and organ-swells fill with sublime, sweet music, its front is very beautiful, kindled into glory and eloquent with song. Ernest Heart puts on his hat, and walks out and into the tailor's. "What was the bill for this suit?" he said, blushing and hesitating a little. "Fifty dollars," said the tailor. "' The bill is paid, sir." "By whom?" said the student. "By Mr. Laurence Greenleaf." "Be so kind as to let me see the bill, sir." "Here it is, sir 3 " and the student reads the name, "Laurence Greenleaf," written ivith the same hand as ,the writing in his Cosmos. "Whlere is Mr. Greenleaf?" said he. "I don't know, sir; he merely sent us the note, and a check paying the bill. I think he has not been here himself'?' "Ah, Mr. Greenleaf, I'll find you out!" said Ernest Heart, as he walked off rapidly down street, till he came to a large drug store. He looks in this year's directory, through all the Green- leafs, then through all the directories of New York and Brook- lyn for the last five years, but there was no Greenleaf there named Laurence, and it is my opinion, Mr. Heart, that there never will be. Tired after his unsuccessful hunt through direc- tories, he makes-up his mind that Mr. Greenleaf may be jut of all business, and has retired with a fortune, and hence has no name in the directory; or he may be a silent partner in some of the many business firms in the city, but if lie ever meets any Mr. Greenleaf anywhere,- he will follow him up, and see if the mysterious Laurence does n't turn up somewhere. Ernest Heart walks up Broadway now, manly, free, indepen- dent. He used to go up-town through some of the side-streets, if possible, so as not to attract the attention of the gay, elegant Broadway belles to his shabby clothes. He used to be afraid to go into those stores where there were so many mirrors; he did n't like to see so many multiplied shabby coat-sleeves, and innumer- able shabby collars confronting him whichever way he turned. One threadbare Ernest Heart, in his old clothes, was enough, without having half a dozen staring at him, no matter how much he inked over the worn seams. ,With his exquisite, fastidious taste, he liked everything fresh and new. Once he was a kind of unpleasant ghost, haunting himself, in that seedy hat, thread- bare broadcloth, and dilapidated boots. Now that he is well- dressed, I can't say but he rather likes going up Broadway, even TOGETHER. o 6 mleeting beautiful ladies and elegant men, -sometimes steps fearlessly and dignifiedly into a store, where a half dozen tall, pale, and well-dressed Ernest Hearts confront him, il their new broadcloth and new kids. Oh, yes, Ernest Heart, you are will- ing now to meet yourself; no longer you dread your shadow. Face, conquer, act yourself; you can't find a better man in Broadway,--in old clothes or new. Go to the artist's recep- tion to-morrow night, and drink your fill of beauty there it will do you good. There 's a ticket in your vest-pocket; you will find it if you examine the terrestrial spaces carefully. He goes home, takes his Cosmos, and reads about ' discoveries in the celes- tialspces, puts his hands in his pockets, as he often does when his mind is absorbed, feels something,--it is a package of car and ferry tickets tied together with a small piece of India-rubber elastic, --puts his hand in the other pocket, and there is a little bunch of ice-cream tickets, and two new pocket-handkerchiefs marked with his name in full,-- ' Ernest Heart." "Ah, Mr. Greenleaf, said; Ernest, rubbing his hands together, "how did you findcout my foolish fondness for ice-cream? If there is any delicacy in which I would indulge, if I could, it is that delicious, refreshing ice-cream; but I have n't tasted it in a year. Of course, it would be wrong for me to spend money for ice-cream while my board-bill was unpaid." He looks again at his Cosmos, at the discoveries in the celes- tial spaces, but thinks more about the discoveries in the terres- trial spaces of his pockets; he turns over the leaves of his book and reads, and then forgets again " the geognosy of sedimentary formations "; and then putting his hand unconsciously in his vest- pocket, finds a ticket to Prof. Mitchell's next astronomical le - ture. "'This is the best of the whole,".he says, delighted, as he puts up his Cosmos, saying, " There is the greatest discovery yet in the terrestrial; spaces of this broadcloth." He takes out his writing-materials and writes three hours, an article for the next Harpers'," called "Laurence Greenleaf; or, Discoveries in the Terrestrial Spaces." He does it up, directs it to "E. Easy Chair, Esq., Drawerville." I don't know whether the Harpers will publish it or not; at any rate, they have published some things not half as good. 5 page: 66-67[View Page 66-67] TOGETHER. CHAPTER IX. Ds ("A COLD AND STARRY EVENING." "He discovereth deep things out of darkness." -JOB xii. 22. "He telleth the number of the stars; he calleth them all by their names. PSALMS cxlvii. 4. AR'fIJU GLENSTEIN, Mary K 's cousin, will have Mary K--- and- I go everywhere and see everything fine, novel, and wonderful, from magicians, museums, and menageries, to orations, operas,-and oratorios. It is very kind in him to take the trouble, as I have no brother or cousin of my own. It has relieved the monotony, and given charm to many lonely and otherwise dull evenings. He catechised us pretty closely, the other night, Mary and I, about the constellations, and found, to his great surprise and dismay, that neither of us could tell when Jupiter was our morning and when our evening star, though we both had recently d bu honors, ^at the Kalon graduated, with white: dress and blue ribbon honors, Institute. He said we must brush up our astronomical knowledge, and he came Wednesday evening to take us to Prof. Mitchell's first lecture. Mary is always bright, but I never saw her in such a gale as she was that night. "She was in her most erudite mood," Arthur said, as he was urging us to put on our bonnets and shawls, to be in time to secure good seats. it Yes, I must hurry, Arthur, I know," she said, " for when a star of the first-magnitude rises and culminates in our intellectual zenith, it would be, as Dr. Cox might say, ' neglect preposterous, oversight hazardous, and stupidity monstrous,' for Louise and I not to turn our intellectual telescope to this new field of view; so we 11 pursue the well-known way to Orange Street, where for four nights one fixed star will shine." Mary never talked much when in a crowd, and she was soon quite still. With all our uncomfortable memories of crowded cars, seats strugglinoly won, or patiently waited for, charmed and charming nights they were. We were in time and fortunate TOGETHER. 67 enough to secure good seats in the fourth pew, in the right-hand f middle aisle. In one corner was a stranger, a quiet old gentleman ; next him we placed Arthur' Glenstein, next sat Mary I , and then myself. One seat was left. The church was soon crowded, galleries and all. In the gallery, at my right hand, I could see Dr. Bdynton, and by his side a little blonde lady, with brown ringlets, pensive face, and classic features, - his wife, I suppose. Up in one corner, alone, sits Mrs. Martha Cater. Poor thing, she has left her cares for awhile. In another corner is Mrs. Mary Harwed, the presiding genius of my habitation. On the other side of :the gallery, with his practical head and shrewd honest face, is' Mr. Scuteus, my shoemaker; and by his side is Mr. Gala, and in the seat in frtont of him Mr. Melit, the very respectable and flourishing firln of booksellers and publishers for whom my friend Harry is clerk; and there by the pillar is Harry Aster himself, sitting among the men, with his big hlead and big soul, bigger than 'the most of them, and his great brown eyes peering over into ;the cirowd, like two stars. There is much nai'Ve and natural grace about a buy of Harry's ayre, if he is n't awk- ward, I think, as every little while I look up at Harry, as he looks so wide awake and sees everything. It is a full hour before the lecture begrins. As I look up at the sea of fine faces, and array of noble heads, I can't help thinking that the finest face anrd noblest head up there is Dr. Boynton's; he sits read:ing a little book. It loolds just like one-of those blue and gilt Tenny- son's Poems; but it may be somethint less ideal. It is something that interests him, for he never raises his eyes, but sits quietly reading it. As the gas-light falls full on his face, I can see, though I never noticed it befbre, his eyelashes are heavy and long, and cast a kind of shadow on his calm, dignified face. The church is crowded now, - there is hardly a seat anywhere left. I Ility those people that sit there in those side-seats, around behind the pulpit, - they might as well go home. I know from experience that the vibratory sound-waves bleak before they reach the ears there. I sat thelre one Sunday evening, and hardly heard onle coherenti sentence fromSlnr. Beecher's clear, distinct voice. Still that one little seat is left by me--'t is strange. I hope no very fat woman or stout elderly gentleman will stumble into it; but some not very large body, that will sit still and listen. I look at my watchi it is fifteen minutes of thie time. I have promised Mildred that I will take some notes of the lecture, or at least trace down some leading words, as basting-threads, so that page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] TOGETHER. my memory can go back and give her the line of the speakler's thoughts. I take out of my pocket my little note-book and pencil. Blary suddenly touches ale, says Arthur wants to speak to me; I lean forward to answer one of his questions, an( a slight stir arrests mny attention. I turn, and there is Ernest i Heart at my side,--he just comfoltalbly fills the vacant place. Without any fussing, fid retingi, or looking around, he takes out his "Cosmos," and quietly reads. As I peer amomentoverhis shoulder, I can sees he is reading in the third volume, that chapter about the scintillations of the stars; tirhe pae oni which his eye rests is in French. and is taken from the "Voyage Aux Regions Equinoxiale." He seems to read every word of it, for it is a ! lonlr titne before he turns over the leaf'; hle does n't look off the ii book. Thelre, alone in his slar-world, little he seems to care ablVolt tie undulatingu enchanting curves of surrothnding fatlers and flounces, or the smiles wreathingr the rulby lips above and around him. The bulls and bears of the celestial streets absorb : his attention as much, and more, perhaps, than'the terrestrial bulls and be ls fill the mind of that very well-known millionnaire from Wall Street, who sits just opposite me in one of those Ifront side-sea's. I imaille I see stocks and bonids, principal: and interest, like half-occult, half-translated hieroglyphics, carved in each line and w rilkle of his shrewd business-face. That is Mr. Ping Oinon, riaht across from us; how near they sit for once, Mr. Heart and Mr. Oinon. I think, as I look first at one and then at the other, their two lives might parallel on thr years, but they could never meet or blend in sympathy. One soul is of the earth, earthy; the other is of the stars, starry. I look around and happen to catch Arthur's eye. As he smiles, I think, Arthur Glenstein, you take the middle road between earth and heaven. You can stoop low enough to grasp a little gold, and wander off long enough to pluck a ifew flowers; yet you look high and far enough to see stars; you are earthy, and starry too. I don't quite understand you, yet I can understand, though I know him not, that Ernest Heart at my side better, for lie never looks down or back. He is pressing onward and upward, in truth and beauty's royal road. When trouble's great icebergs loom before him, he stands still, but never goes back, -he would die first. As he turns over the leaves with his ungloved hand, of course I can't help seeing that the hand is white and symmetrical, and his foot is well shaped and small, for a gentleman of his height. There is a stir in the crowd, a subdued murmur of applause, then TOGETHER. 69 a cordial, enthusiastic, simultaneous cheer. I turn to see Prof. Mitchell. It is bmy first sight of the man. He glides into his j seat, as quietly as; the evening star moves into its natural place. i Is n't it strange sol small a body should hold that great soul? Ernest Heart closes his book, putting in the place where he leaves off a little I rose-geranium leaf. "That's a queer kind of mark," I say to mysdf, as he looks up and I look up into the i Professor's face. ; For a long time I forgot the crowd, Dr. Boynton, Harry Aster, Ernest Heart, Arthur Glenstein, Mary K , and even; Louise Grenville herself, and the big world about which she thinks so much. I stretched up as tall as I could, on my spiritual heels, and looked, and reached, and longed, and listened, while he with weary eyes, that se'dom slept, but watched with stars, - that weird-looking, man, with face so fill of' thought, as if' just awaking from some glorious dream, - did drag us up, for a time, to those grand heights, and glorious sights, i where his rapt spirit and clairvoyant eye had so long revelled. I He helped us up the starry ladder, and through his magic tube, with the aid of that; insignificant cane and tumbler, led us up some starry promontory, jshowed us the charming cotillon of con tella- tions, the planets' wondrous waltz, or comets' rapid reel. As the gigantic mind beftore us climbed lunar mountains, travelled stellar worlds, holding up the trailing garments of the shadowy comet, sweeping th'e eternal halls, he walked the fields of blue, grouped and bouqieted tliose starry clu:ters in his double hand, d and with transfigured face came down from the hoary moun- tains of star-lit science, showing to u; little dwellers in the vale of ignorance those golden flowers of heaven,--as his giant soul j leaped on from hill Ito hill of thought, breathlessly trying to catch some onward-beckoning yet ever retreating star, mocking the * range of his mighty tube, - as his soul sat high in its meridian tower, and the stars of great thoughts crossed its disk, - ever and anon he would burst forth, with eloquent emphasis, with the impassioned exclamation, "1Most grand and mighty!" and our kneeling souls chimed in their Te Deum, "Most grand and !, mighty!" At the close of one of his sublime sentences he j paused. I paused to take breath a moment. Ernest Heart was '4 writing; he looked inspired, rapt, entranced; the light of those i starry commrunings was flashing in his face as he wrote on, trying in his queer, rapid short-hand to retrace those mystic hieroglyphs revealed to him in the Bible-roof of Time, by the master magician. The Professor still pauses, as Ernest Heart finishes the last J J page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] 70 TOGETHER. sentence. Some unaccountable impulse moved me to look over his shoulder. Just then he Mwrites, unvconsciously, and with pre- occupied thoughts, but' in exactly the style I had written, letter for letter, in large, plain hand, my adopted signature, "Laurence Greenleaf,"-not one Laurence Greenleaf, but two or three of them. He happened suddenly to look up and meet my eye; I blushed till my whole face felt hot. I could shut myself up in the darkest closet for blushing so, anary at myself; and the more angry I am the more I blush, as 1 turn away and look intently at the speaker. "What will the man think of me?"I said to myself, almost ready to cry,; "he will think I am an awkward, unsophisticated, foolish school-girll, who can't meet the accidental, careless glance of a strange gentleman without blushing fearfully and violently. If he should in any way associate my blushing with his writing, what could he think then? I wish I had n't looked that way at all, on his unfortunate paper." Just then, Mary K--, who had been looking at Ernest Heart, touched me and said, "Is n't that a very interesting-looking young main at your right hiand? I thn he looks stylish, and intellectual too, and you can't say that of many men. Arthur says he has seen him once or twice at a lecture -in New York, but he never saw him so well dressed before. :But is n't he fine-looking? I wish you would julst look at his classic profile, as lie sits there writ- ing; "and ehe pu-hed my sloulder aain till I blushed deeDer than ever. "Why, Louise. why don't yotl look at the man? what makes you blush so?" said -fie, suddenly. "I 'm blushing at my thoughts," said 1, which was half true and half fal-e. "I don't know the young gentleman, and I am too near him to examine his features," said I, lookingr straight ahead, and more intensely and persistently at Prof. Mitchell. I never go to a fancy-dress or masquerade. I never wear a domino. I adopt no disguise, assume no character. I have no secr-et from Mary K ,but this little affair between myself and Laurence Greenleaf. It is the only secret I ever had, the only doming I 'll ever put on; but pride, pleasure, and will, too, make me anxious to keep it. Ernest Heart takes out one of those pocket-handkerchiefs, wipes the perspiration from his forehead, puslies back those wavy curls, that will keep drooping over the left side of his rare face, puts up his 4"Cosmos," and his short notes, and sits and listens until the lecture closes. ' "How did you like the lecturer, Miss Louise?" said Arthur, as he walked home by my side. TOGETHER.. 71 "Like him?" said I; " if there ever was a man, whom without knowing I could love, esteem, respect, admire, venerate, worship, it is he. He seems not of earth, earthy; his thoughts are literally higher than our thoughts, they are heavenly. I have a most pro- found respect for a man who loves science so reverently, for its own dear sake. I learned more about the stars this one night than from all the astronomies and geographies of the heavens I ever studied. If he gave two hundred lectures, I 'd like to hear thlem all. If I were rich, I would erect a monument in honor of his living name, - not in Greenwood, among the silent dead, but in some grand Central Park, where the living walk, and where happy children play. It should tower above all other monuments, with a single star on its lofty summit, and around the shaft an aureole of stars, and beneath, in golden letters, the name of Mitchell, - the name now written in fadeless azure, nearer the stars than any other American name." "If that man should die before 1 do," said Arthur, "although I am neither erudite nor eloquent, I think 1 could write a grand oration about him. I never could have a more eloquent or in- spiring theme. The man is a fool who couldn't say something beautiful about him." "I had a presentiment," said I, " as I listened to him, that he would n't live long, but in a few short years he might be called up to join the stars." It seemed to me there was n't room enough in this world for his great soul, that had so long reached forth on tiptoe, to peer into those distant starry windows; some beckoning angel might ate last, - as one lifts a tired, longing child, and bears him aloft, to come face to face with the coveted light,-so an angel might at last bear him aloft, to meet face to face those shining chandeliers he had so long tried ,to reach and grasp. It is a clear, cold night. Arthur points out Aries, Perseus, Taurus, Orion, Lepus, Auriga, and Canis Major. He shows us the Egyptian X, or the two triangles, joined at their vertex in Sirius; points out Capella, which is almost on the meridian now, and Rigel in Orion's foot, so near it, and so much like it in bright- ness. As we pass up the street, I see a man standing still a moment and looking up, I should think, at Capella. As we pass him i am sure it is 'Ernest Heart.' He is star-gazing too; as I look up, I see he only stops a moment, turns the corner, and is out of sight. We are soon at my door. Arthur bids me good-night, and goes home with AMary. I go in as still as I can. Mildreds page: 72-73[View Page 72-73] 72 TOGETHER. asleep; "Jane Eyre" is lying open beside her; she has almost finished it. What is there about the book that bewitches every- body so? I have read it half a dozen times myself, and I plre- sume I shall read it, perhaps once a year, as long as I live. Poor Charlotte Bronte! why do our starriest souls vanish from earth's horizon so early? "So star by star declines, Till all have passed away, As morning high and higher shines, To pure and perfect day." I stand at my window, and look out a moment. Sirius is shin- ing in my room; I never saw it more bright; I wonder if people live there. How strange, I think, as I gaze at it, if there were an organ in some stately cathedral up there, loud and clear enough to send its music to our distant ears; a little less than three million of years must pass ere its far, faint, weary notes fell on earthly ears, waking their long, long echoes. And since these starry rays I see to-night left their home three years ago, Sirius may have vanished, and the Sirius I see looking down upon me with that resplendent, radiant face, may be only the brighlt shadow of her departed glory. I am not a genius - not a poet - not a musician,-- yet my head has been so filled with grand thoughts to-night, I feel as if Icould poetize, idealize, or improvise. The jEolian harp is only a box of fibrous wood, with its fine, simple strings; yet across the chords, when the wind blows, comes sweet choired music, mingling harmonic notes, swelling or vanishing, as swayed or swept by the mighty impulsive blast, or lulled to rest by the soft, gentler breeze. So the breath of mighty eloquence has swept over my- dull, uninspired spir'it's chords, and to-night I feel as if even I f" could wind and wake to music the lyre-strings of my tuneless soul." I would bring music out of those mute keys yonder, if it were not for waking Mildred. I am not a star, yet I know that sometimes, and rare, the stars of great thoughts do cross the disk of my soul; and then I want to get away and beyond myself, I say, as I draw down the shade and light the gas. On the table is a new magazine, with Harry Aster's name on the outside, written as large as life, with sundry elaborate boyish flourishes. The H has some ornate twirls, and the left side of the A is very prominent and luxuriant, and the conclud- ing R is carefully turned up and twisted and turned down again. Harry must have brought it on his way to the lecture. He said tpere would be a poem in it by Ernest Heart. I open it; I see TOGETHER, 73 he has turned down the leaf, and marked the poem with a lead- pencil. I will read it aloud. I always want to read poetry loud, and give to " the rhyme of the poet the chime of the voice." "When the great star-thoughts cross the disk of the soul And the waves of emotion all ceaselessly roll, O'er the wide sea of beauty doth Fancy career, While chimes of sweet music fall soft on the ear. , "Then radiant visions glorious lie, Like sunset-clouds, piled mountain-high. O'er Thought's great shore sublimely roll The surging billows of the soul. "On Memory's dim, receding strand, Are shells and pearls and sparkling sand. Hope's fading sunset stains with gold The oriel-windows of the soul. "Far out at sea our joy-ships 'sail 1freighted with hopes, with fav'ring gale, Bound for some island green and blest, Some shore of cool, delightful rest. Olth tairy mast and shadowy helm, and pennant passing fair, Our glorious ships go sailing on, and glisten in the air; Convoyed by- fleets of guardian dreams, how gracefully the glide, Fast o'er the Future's mighty main, through Destiny's deep tide. "With yearning eyes we watch and wait for treasures promised free, When these brave ships, with swelling sails, come gayly back fron4 sea. Such fabricsfine our longing soul newly adorned s ,ll wear, And wreathe her weary, patient brow with peerless diamonds fair. "But list! across the sunny sea A sorrowing sea-bird comes to me; And like a wail, so sadly clear, Doth fall his message on mine ear. "No watching soul shall speak return Of ships that sail from Fancy's bourn; Hope' s long-boat'launched shall come back never,.- Our phantom ships may sail forever. a "Out on the Arctic sea of fate, How oft they wander desolate. Doubt's corsair-fleets go cruising round, - Till wrecked and plundered joys go down. "Brighter and brighter, to perfect day, Is one dream of the soul that fades not away, Where the Life-River rolls by the surgeless strand, And strews no wrecks on the golden sand." I'll write no poem to-night. Ernest Heart has written thoughts better than I could, -it is my poem, if he did write it. page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] 74 D TOGETHER. * I look at it again. Why, it is strange I should not notice it before, ---it is dedicated to Laurence Greenleaf; that 's a new idea to dedicate a little poem like that, and then to so unpoetical a name as Laurence Greenleaf; it looks oddly, but it was rather a bright idea, considering the circumstances. Ah! he little thinks what a gay, foolish- girl Laurence Greenleaf is. But see, the date is the fourteenth, - that must have been the day after he got his "Cosmos." It is not a perfect poem. Critics may call the measure neither smooth nor correct; Josiah January will think it all plati- tudes. It reads as if it were wrtitten, and never scanned or meas- ured afterwards. Yet I sympathize with. I share, I like the thoughts. How strange I had said, only al few moments ago, something about the great stars of thought crossing my soul's disk, and here it is, in the first line of the poem, - "When the great star-thoughts cross the disk of the soul." Ernest Heart has a great, starry soul, and if I can't shine my- self in burning words, I can help him shine. Poor fellow! he has,been eclipsed long enough; " his pearls are plentier than my pebble-stones." If round my brow Genius never wreathes her aureola of starry words, I'll try and remember what mother used to say, -"It is a very good thing to be great, but a very great thing to be good; and next to being good is doing good." I can do that Ernest Heart some good. 1 'm in the mood to-night to de- spise conventionality, to mock at custom, to challenge opinion when there is good to be done, and I can do it; I know I ought to. Never should beings go hungry near me, if I have food, never lips thirsty if I have drink, never limbs cold if I have fire, never a spirit weak if I have strength, nor heart hopeless if I have hope. There's no more tearful sight for me than a gifted soul struggling against cold -wind and strong tide, to cross the dark, deep current of pov- erty,to gain the dangerous, sharp-clifted, shining shore of success. I'm only a woman, with no mother to miss, no sister to love, no child to cling to me. If I should die, the world would be no darker or lonelier. I'm of little use, but the world needs, sadly, all the good, great men there are in it; it can't afford to lose one Ernest Heart. When Harry told me, last night, how he went to take a book to Ernest Heart's room, and, thinking he was out, walked right in, and there the man was, lying in bed, covered all up, all but his head, and one hand holding the book. The water in the pitcher on the stand by his bedside was frozen solid, as TOGETHER. 75 Harry said, yet there he was, poring over his "Cosmos," ruinit Iis eyes and freezing his hand, - I cried; yes, cried ;- and it sha'n't be so anyA lon'er. Laurenlce Greenleaf shall send 1lim two loads of wood and two tolls of coal to-morrow morning. He shall have as big a conflagration as he wishes for once. to- morrow night; and 1 laugh at the bright idea; and Mrs. Cater shall be paid for attending to it, too; I am not going to have him burning his hands, and putting out his eyes, kind!ng fires and poking ashes. He may read on the bed, but he certainly can't write; and he has written somne of the most beautiful cn,)se articles I have ever read. I don't think he writes very much poetry, but he can't write on the bed. What will be do when, on the still evening air, those osreat thoughts come to him, as they come to all pure, true souls. So many peerless thoughts rise with the even- inm stars, when day's cares have gone down with the sun; then thought's evening Stars glide across the soul's zenith, ffill-orbed and radiant. Best; and brightest thoughts are always morning or evening stars; w;th earliest dawn these golden thoughts open their glorious eye., rise with the soul, as the holy garments of the night still enfold her, and the earliest dew of' inspiration kisses her brow. Many a thought-peal1 or image-flower you may gather late in life's prosy afternoon; but the radiant stats of soul rise with the cawn or olow with the evening blue. But how can I Danaue about that coal? these coal-men are so busy now, an order for two tons of coal inust be given two or three days beforehand. I ordered some coal for myself; it was to come, here early to-morrow morninr; but I 've coal enough to last a week yet. I'll get up at five o'clock, go down there early before my breakfast. and countermand the order. Aiby coal shall go to No. 8. The first load shall be there by eight o'clock cer- tainly; and Jane sall make the fire in his room while Ernest Heart is down at breakftst. I'll get the coal there in time. Laurence Greenlear pays a good price and pays down; the boy shall put fifty cents in Jane's hand; I know what she 'll do with it: she 11 give it to her invalid married sister, who has half a dowen ragged, half-starved children. Harry says, there's where more than half Jane's wa!ges goes; so the money will do good in tho end; and the end shall sanctify the means, this time. After to- morrow, Laurence Greenleaf will make some arrangement with Mrs. Cater to have irnest Heart's fire kindled and replenished as he wishes. His ifire shall be of genuine anthracite; it shall burn with its shining lustre, its smokeless flame, its intensest heat; page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] 76 ' TOGETHER. there shall be a fire in the grate, and up over the grate something else, which I know he will like, - something to brighten up his eyes more than the fire ; and I go to sleep, thinking of that some- thing else. --I don't sleep very long; I wake up in the night and think why does the slow, stupid world leave author and artist to battle alone with debility, deprivation, destitution, desolation, death; and after death finishes the battle, wreathe, crown, and worship the .work left behind i Absolutely, sublimely alone, up Life's old rickety staircase, lives Fame's unknown, unacknowl- edged, royal child. and sees the stars only through the rents in his garret-roof He battles with the tide of thought, strives and dies, leaving on life's lee-shore the jewels gathered from the deep gulf of his soul, to glitter forever in Fame's radiant coronal. Oh, j world, world, why not strengthen the hand that creates; not wait for death to crown the creation! Fame's garland for her brightest, best-beloved children is only a wreath, a cross and a crown of immortelles she. lays on the closed coffin-lid! Can the closed eyes see the crown? Can the hushed ear hear the anthem? Can the still heart feel the glory-thrill? t TOGETHER. *1 CHAPTER X. ERNEST HEART. saw his face as it had been the face of an angel." --ACTS vi. 15. IT was a bitter cold morning; Jack Frost had o'er Ernest Heart's windows ,i like a fairy crept." There were cities, thrones, temples, and towers, and trees, All pictured in silver sheen." How he washed his hands or face that morning, I don't know, fortlhe pitcherwas fl ofice. He performed some kin of hasty toilet; and then, shivering with cold, descended into the parlor to warm his chilled, benumbed hands and half-fiozen feet by the grate, and, about a quarter of eight, went out to breakfast. He lingered some time in the comfortable diningc-room, dreading to go upstairs into zero again, and at last returned to the pallor; but Margaret came in with her dust-pan and broom, - a polite, gentle hint that, his presence is not just now necessary. Gentlemen after breakfast are only unnecessary evils, even Mrs. Cater ac- knowledges. So Ernest Heart walks off quickly up-stairs, with a shrug of his shoulders, and decreasing his ascending velocity as he nears his door; rubbing his hands, striking his slippered feet together, and buttoning his coat up to the chin, he walks in,in something the mood in which you take your seat in the dentist's chair, to have that big aching tooth extracted. Heslowly opens the door ; what a change has come over the spirit of his dream! Was there ever such a fire before, - bright, smokeless, intense,-- why even the old chairs and table look bright, in its new, strange glow! - It snaps and laughs and cracks as he comes in, as if to say, " You did n't expect to see me, sir;" and there over the fire, on the mantle, is '"Evangeline," the very Evangeline he has seen so often in that window, only it has a new, plain, beautiful frame. The advent of this fire is a lucky day to me," he says, as he * - - : page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] -' ': TOGETHER. stands and looks at Evangeline. ', Yes, 't is mine," he says, "mine ;" as he repeats - "Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the sunset Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad ambrosial meadows. Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen, And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial ascended." He draws up the chair, and sits down and leans his head on his hand, looks into the fire, and repeats- - "In the Acadian land, on the shores of the basin of Minas, Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand Pr." There's a knock at the door. He looks up; it is Jane. She says, - "Your last load of coal has come, sir. Please sign these papers." "My coal!" said Mr. Heart, jumping up, and rubbing his hand across his forehead. "Yes, sir. Mr. Greenleaf ordered two tons of coal and two loads of wood to come here this morninrg; and I am to make the fires, sir," said she, dropping a kind of courtesy. Not willing to make any further exhibition of his surprise and ignorance to the girl, Mr. Heart said, I 1Oh, yes, I understland; Mr. Greenleaf has saved me the trouble; he has ordered just what I wanted: 'wo tons of coal, you say, and tawo loads of wood. Let tme have the papers, - I'II sign them." As Ernest Heart puts his name to these new and unexpected documents, he feels most as grand as if he were the proprietor of some large landed estate, and was signinog his name to some newly purchased valuable property. Th's signing anything was as novel to him as the child's first pair of boots. I wonder he- did n't put his name down in the wrong place; but he did n't, I be- lieve. He wrote it clearly and legibly, - - Ernest Hieart," down on the lower right-hand corner of each paper. He feels almost consequential, - he has risen something in Wis own estimation, certainly a great deal in Jane's, since yesterday. , Mr. Heart must be getting rich, or else he has some rich friend," said she, as she goes off with the papers. There is n't a gentlemlan in the house who wears slchl fine clothes, and lie used to be the tpoorest-dressed boarder we had. I riever used to think he was handsome, he had such a kind of down-hearted look ; but now he looks so bright, I think he is real good-looking." Ernest Heart goes on repeating some of the .most beautiful passages in Evangeline, then rises with warm hands, warm feet. P TOGETHER. 79 The bright fire before himlhas given his pale face quite a ruddy glow. It is Thursday; there 'll be no lecture to-day. He can sit as long as he chooses by his fire. What a treat a fire of his own all day; he has n't had it for years. It is a very cold day, and snowing fast without. There may be a heavy fall of snow before night. Little he cares; he only feels more comfortable in his pleasant room, - anyhow he won't have to go out and walk, to get warm ;-- he looks out of the window, at the weather-vane; it points northeast, - and his eyes and soult point to the north- east corner of his room, where is his writing-desk ;- he opens it, and is soon writing as fast as pen can cross the paper; dowa in the valley of thought, how fast that little poem grows. There's another knock at the door; this time, as he rises to open it, there's a frown on his fine face, a little look of impa- tience; it is Mrs. Cater, with a bunch of white chrysanthemums and some heliotropes. "Excuse mei sir," said she, "I did n't mean to interrupt you; but these were sent me last night, and I thought you might like them better than I. My boy was a student like yourself, sir, and he thought so much of heliotropes, because he said they always turned to the sun, and then no flower had their delightful, peculiar odor," - and she put the flowers-on the table before him. "You could n't have brought me anythiing I would like better," said hMr. Heart, as his fine eyes sparkled with pleasure; the chrysanthemum is a very great favorite of mine, because it blooms so late and when it is so cold; - other flowers are afraid to show their heads ;-- it is such a brave flower, - the last to meet the elements, the first to bide the wintry storm; and if I were rich I would always have fresh heliotropes on my table, while they could be found in any conservatory in the city. But where is your son?" "He died three years ago," replied lMrs. Cater, -" only three months after his last college-commencement at Yale. He wrote the valedictory, - it was the last thing he ever wrote. I remem- ber on that very day he delivered the poem a lady sent him a bouquet of heliotropes ;--he always said he'd rather have plenty of one flower than a variety of flowers; kindred flowers should grow in clusters, like groups of stars. If I had been rich, sir, he wouldn't - I don't think he would have died; but he studied so hard. to keep up with his class, pay his college-bills, and earn his board by teaching and writing and copying, and then studying 'so late nights, - it was too much; but he always page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] OUs AUVTilEUi' . stood high in his class, and I thought he would have been-such a comfort to me. His father died when Arthur was only three years old; and he was like son and husband, too, to me." She paused and turned half round suddenly, to hide the tears which were well- ing her blue eyes. Then she went on, -"I will see that your fire is kept; don't trouble yourself to replenish it. If you want coal, or your fire kindled, ring the bell, and Jane will come," - and she closed the door softly and went out. The door once firmly closed, as she descended the stairs, the low, stifled sobs burst forth, and the buried grief mourned as bitter again as when first they told her her boy must die. "How can I give him up!" she said, as she said three years ago, when she saw on his face, on his 4' dear brow "- that light "Which is the daylight only." "Her life has had its poem and- its dirge too," said Ernest Heart, as he heard her retreating footsteps descending the stairs. 1"Why must this only flower of her life have faded - the only star gone down? I wonder I never heard before of this lost student-boy; but so it is : welive side by side every day with sodie heart, yet know not that it hath its hidden tomb, its buried joy, its always green grave,--and the heart, over-strained and taxed with its constant care for others, smiling with their joy, shar- ing their sorrow, so often goes alone to weep beside its grave, and plants the cypress of memory close by the fountain of tears." As Ernest Heart wrote on, the sun suddenly burst forth through the clouds and shone in on the cluster of heliotropes. As the sunlight lay on the heads of the meek flowers, like a golden crown, he looked up and said, "Rare, radiant heliotrope, with thy blue and purple robe, and with thy little starry eyes, thou always findest the sun; and this time, in the storm, thou seemest to have brought the sunshine with thee!" The fire burns on, the fragrance of heliotrope perfumes the -air; like a new, gentle spirit, Evangeline's silent lips whisper comfort; but a brighter fire glows in those fast-written words, a more fragrant balm breathes in those sweet thoughts, and a more glad Evangel will be that fresh poem, from that Ernest Heart, to some despairing soul! TOGETHER. 81 $ i CHAPTER XL - NOBLE IS MAD. "Miss LoTIsE! Miss Louise!" said Jane, bursting suddenly into my room, "Noble is mad! Noble is mad!" "Noble mad? my father's dog! I don't believe it; he had as sound a mind in as sound a body as ever dog had, when I gave him his breakfast this morning. He always snaps, and he might bite, if any one took a bone away from him, or teased him when he is eating; but who says he is mad?" John says that this morning a gentleman was standing in the street somewhere' with a purse in his hand, and Noble sprang at him furiously and bit the sleeve of his coat. The man was much frightened, and screamed out, "Take him away! take him awavy he is mad! he is mad!" The man ran into a neighboring house, and somebody fastened the dog. Jane went out suddenly. Just then we heard a low growl, then a sharp, quick bark, in the yard. John had brought the dog back, and tied him in the yard. The gentleman whom he .-ali attacked had begged John to keep him out of his way, saying that he ought to be killed.- He had been bitten by a mad dog once, and since then had always been nervously afraid of dogs. I don't believe Noble is mad. I ant sure some one must have teased him; but I'It wait a few hour&, and see if he acts mad, before I hate him shot. I go down-street,to do a little shopping. I take quite a walk, when I hear something coming rushing and panting behind me. It is Noble; he has burst the rope that con- fined him, and is coming at a furious rate. "He is mad! he is mad!"I exclaim in hopeless terror, as my feet seem to give away, and I cannot run. Just then a man comes up on horse- back. Quick as thought he gets off the horse, and throwing himself on the dog, clasps his right hand tight around his neck, puts his other hand in his pocket, slips on a glove for fear some of the poison might happen to get in some scratch on his hand, and screams to a workman near by to bring him a chain 6 page: 82-83[View Page 82-83] 82 TOGETHER. from the hardware store across the way. He fastened one end of the chain around the- dog's neck, bidding the man fasten the other around the post; and then, giving the dog a sudden thrust from hm, he mounted his horse and rode rapidly away. The dog's eye glared, and he looked as if he would tear the man in pieces. I was standing by the window of a house, in which, in my fright, I had sourght shelter. I watched the dog with breatlhless terror and suspense; I hardly looked at the man, but as he mounted his horse he turned and said, 'i That doc ought to be shot." He lifted his hat a moment, to wipe the perspiration standing in great drops on his forehead. I saw, as the hair was brushed back, just above his right temple, a small, deep, strongly matrked, peculiarly defined red- scar. How strange that man came alone just then. He saved my life, I suppose. Noble must be mad. It is an inevitable, cruel necessity,- my fatlher's dog must be shot; I have ordered it to be done, and I try not to think about it; it gives me sharp pain, for Noble was a great favorite of my father. With Noble's life there are mournful, tender associations connected, but his death will leave no hopeless heart-ache; I could not prevent or foresee his madness. About a week after I was :walking down Canal Street; I stop a moment to look at something in a window. There was a pair of under-sleeves, simply made, yet quite elegant; I thought I would try and make some like them. I was calculating how much lace it would take to make those sundry puffs, and how much ribbon to execute those divers bows, when I was sud- denly seized by some strong, quick hand, and taken out into the middle of the street, and left standing there. I looked up at the spot where I had just stood, and a heavy brickbat was falling with great velocity to the sidewalk. The ground hld received the blow I might have had. The presence of mind and presence of body of that stranger gentleman had saved me. Who was he? where was he? Somewhere among that moving mass of beings hurrying on. God bless him. I suppose I shall never thank him. I might insert in the "H er- aid, - "The young ladky who was on Wednesday morning in Canal Street, saved from the fall of a brickbat, thanks the gentleman for his timely help." I heard an old lady at the corner say, "It is no more than he 'ought to have done;" per- haps not; but we estimate a favor more by the use it isto us TOGETHER. 83 than by the cost it is. to the giver; besides, I might have had forty brickbats about to descend on my head, and most people would never have known or noticed it; they would say, I must have, my wits about me. I suppose they were repairing the building next to the window where I had stoodl. I did not look to see, - they are always finishinf something in New York. I go on up Broadway. Some one comes hulryin, behind me; they are masculine boots, I know, by the creak. They come closer and closer. I go on faster, and the faster the boots come. I -don't like to be followed; I look over my right shoulder; I see Harry's big bright eyes. "I saw iMr. Heart lift you up out into the street. I was in a store, up-stairs, by the window." Are you sure, Harry?" '-"Oh yes! At first I should have hardly known him; he had on such an elegant, new suit of clothes. I never saw him walk- ing there before. I don't believe he liked to go around that way much, with those old clothes; maybe he knows how well he looks in these. There is not a better-looking man in the world now. I saw his eyes as he looked back only a moment after he put you down. I should know his eyes anywhere; they always see if anybody is in trouble. I believe God made them just -for him. There is n't such another pair in the world. There's more sunshine and light in one look out of them than in other people's eyes all their lifetime. Would n't he make a bully brother? I wish he was my brother, and I could like him as much as I had a mind to; but I must hurry with this bundle to Mr. Harper's, or Mr. Gala will have a good scolding ready for that lazy rascal Harry.'" I look a moment across the street. There is a very old lady, shabby, forlorn,. wrinkled, infirm, lame; and a young gentleman is helping her across the street. It is an unusual sight for such a poor creature to be so gallantly escorted. There's no star on the man's breast, - no, he's no policeman, -- but there's a star of kindness shining in his heart. Yes, there's a star in his breast, though you don't see it twinkle on his coat; - he is one of God's policemen: you see them sometimes even in Broadwa. The gentleman lands the lady carefully on the sidewalk, and the poor old lady says, "Thank you, oh, thank you, sir! I can't see you very well, but I can see your bonnie face, and there's few like you; may you never be poor andlold and lame." The gentleman is Ernest Heart; he walks on. page: 84-85[View Page 84-85] 84 TOGETHER. CHAPTER XII. GLEE AND GLOOM. "The skill of the physician shall lift up his head, and in the sight of great men shall he be in adn'iration." - ECCLESIASTICUS xxxviii. 3. THERE is one thing for which I feel very thankful. I inherit a sound, strong, elastic constitution. This great world's imperious draft on brain and will and nerve I should not escape; no consti- tutional, chronic, or occasional pain, debility, or ailment exempts me from life's busy regiment of workers. Before conscience's strict board of enrolment I am liable to do daily duty in the field of action. I was never really ill two days in my life; well- shod and clad, I can go out in all weathers. I like going in the I rain; it rather exhilarates my spirits; there 's something gentle and soothing in the quiet dropping of the musical shower, a sound unlike any other noise on earth. It is a kind of congregational murmuring whisper. If the sidewalks are slippery, I go in the road. There's a charm to me in the wind and the hail. the snow and the rain. I can bear almost any accident from the ele- ments- anything but having my umbrella turn upside-down, or rather inside-out; that completely destroys my spiritual equilibri- um, annoys and irritates me; for. when an umbrella ceases to perform its predestined duty, when it ceases to be an umbrella, of what use is it? It is the most unsilghtly, unpicturesque, incon- venient appendage; you can neither carry it before, behind, one side, or above you. I dwell waith pathos upon this theme, be- cause only yesterday the accident tragic happened to me. My new blue silk bonnet was left shelterless, protectless, defenceless in the rain, while I was obliged to propel the inverted umbrella home the best way I could; and the bonnet was just the shade of blue that water always spots. 'My father and my mother were well, until he was gone; then she seemed to grow thinner and paler until she died. ' TOGETHER. 85 There grew once, in an out-of-the-way place in our yard,.two beautiful rose-bushes; they were so much alike, we called them twins. Every June they were laden with clusters of fragrant roses. We thought it a pity they should grow there so luxuriant- ly, where nobody could enjoy their beauty. At last we trans- planted one, and placed it just where we could see it from the front window. As my father dug it up, he found the roots of the two bushes had strangely interlocked and interlaced ; yet as care- fully as he could he severed them, and, leaving as much of the native earth about it as possible, he removed one rose-bush and planted it where -we could watch and admire it as much as we chose. We watered it often and watched it carefillly, but in a few days it drooped, leaf by leaf faded, the branches began to lose their green, cheerful look, the root withered, and at last the rose-bush died. Bridget said it grieved after the other bush. And by and by the other bush died too. How we mourned, when June came again, for those lost roses. I thought it a great trial then to give them up; we had seen them for years, so fresh and beautiful, and I had always had until then a fragrant cluster for each invalid friend, and bouquets innumerable for every festive occasion; not a day, while roses lasted, was our pleasant parlor without its vases of fresh roses. But there was a greater trial coming As I stood in Greenwood, last June, by the gtave of my father and mother, I thought of the two rose-bushes. My father and mother had lived happily and harmoniously side by side for years; the fibres of their hearts had so interclasped and intertwined, that when one was removed to a higher garden the other drooped and faded. My mother could n't live long away from her soul's lost twin. I often think there 's a great deal in will. I don't carry it as far as Barnwell Bronte did, who raised himself on his feet to die, resolved to stand up till the last; but many ailments are nervous, curable, conquerable,- a strong will can fight or wear them out. I look at Mildred now, as she lies asleep, and I know that she is the victim of accident and poverty; her spirit is brave and willing, but she is weak. I think, as she sleeps and the sun- shine steals in on her pillow, that "The shadow of a monarch's crown Is softened in her hair." I mde an arrangement with Mrs. Harwed to have Jane sit with Mildred when I am out. She comes at the least touch of , . page: 86-87[View Page 86-87] 86 TOGETHER. O Mildred's bell, which I leave on the bed beside her. Mildred has improved since she came here, in head and heart and face. The head has ceased its aching, the heart's irregular throbbing is soothed, and the face is- less shadowy and wan ; there 's more color in lip and cheek, more light in the eye; she is really better, but the limb she must n't use yet. Her head can be bol- stered up with pillows, and she read, some days, an hour at a time. I put some books on her bed whenever I go out. Last week she finished "David Copperfield"; to-day she has been reading some in a volume of poems I gave- her; the book is open by her side, she has marked this passage with her pencil,- "Daisies are white upon the church-yard sod, Sweet tears the clouds lean down and give; / This world is very lovely. O my God! I thank thee that'I live." Poor child! she just begins to breathe the poetry of life. To her lonely, shut-out sight, the world of song, and dreams, and art, and beauty has been long unseen, unapproachable ; and the first glimpse of this beautiful thought-world is like sun, and moon, and star, and flower, to the newly opened eyes of the blind man, caged in darkness for gloomy years. I like to bring these sweet song-flowers to this suffering, sensitive child of nature, whose soul, like an unswept harp, is all ready for the inspiring breath. Mildred came to me the last of November. It will be six months to-night since I saw that pillar of fire; - six months an invalid,--how hard! Dr. Boynton was here every day for three months; now he comes three times a week. It does us good to see his bright, pleasant face. His patients all look upon him as a sympathizing friend, - he often takes the place by a sick and dying bed of a doctor and minister too. He would make a good minister; but good physicians do as much good as -sometimes more than - a minister. I mean to do so much this weel, my head is full of plans. I must see my drummer-boy's mother; I must go and see the little bread-girl. I shallbe going about most all of this week and the next, to accomplish all my plans. I see Mildred lying here asleep, and know 1 could n't be. as patient and cheerful, if I were helpless and lame. No, I mean to be able to help myself for many years yet. I believe 1, can keep well if I am careful. But there 's a ring at the door. It is Harry; he has come with Mr. Melit's carriage. Mr. Melit has let him take it out in the TOGETHER. 87 country a ways, to bring something back for him. I can see Harry feels very grand, with that fine horse to drive, and he has come to see if I would n't like to go with him. He is going by Mr. Burgess's, End I want to stop there and see the night-bloom- ing cereus, which he has preserved in spirits; it 's a perfect nun among flowers, - face veiled and shrouded from day's admiring eyes, -and when the rest of' the world is asleep, like an angel it visits eartlh, almost unseen, and opens its starry eyes. I want to get a calladiumr for Mildred, too. The leaf is so radiant and brilliant, with its graceful veins like threads and shades of ruby light, I think it will- charm her as it charmed me. I wish you could see Harry! If ever a boy does look happy, it is in a nice carriage, behind a fine horse. Laurence Green- le if must send him a new cap and pair of boots. How he wraps the buffalo aroundl my feet, and puts the top down so I can see out; and away we go, both of us in the finest of spirits-; we stop at Mr. Burges's, to see the cereus. It is n't just the thing fobr me to do, but I want to see the flower, face to face, so I take olt the glass stopper a moment, and, in spite of the alcohol, I think I can detect the subtle, delicious perfume; yet I don't see, so longt as one blossom usually appears at a time on a plant, where Mr. Phalon gets enou(h of the flowers of the night- blooming cereus to make so much of that celebrated perfume, -unless he imports them from the Sandwich Islands; they say they grow there so luxuriantly, that sometimes in one night there will open a whole constellation of flowers; you can count, sometimes, sixty of them at once. I buy one of those hanging baskets, fill it with intertwining vines, and get as pretty a calla- dium as I can find. As we are coming back, just as we turn the corner quite near mny own house, one of those new street loco- motives, hssing and whizzing like an infernal monster, comes un- expectedly down the street. at such a fearfil rate that the horse is terrified and unmanageable; he starts, reels, whirls around, and that is all I remember. Hours after, I oponed my eyes once, but could not speak. I was lying on my own bed. I was half con-cious that something had happened, and yet-I remembered nothing connectedly. I closed my eyes again, some one wais bathing my hands and tem- ples, and I think a few drops of wine were put in my mouth, - but I am not sure of it; all seems like a faint dream. I am generally very careful about my papers, letters, &c. I always put up my portfolio before I go out; but the morning page: 88-89[View Page 88-89] 88 TOGETHER. Harry came for me, I went off in a hurry, End forgot to take it off my bed, where it was lying. I speak of this now, because a little thing happened, making this simple oversight on my part the beginning of a chain of events. My head was not severely injured, but when at last I opened my eyes again, I had an agonizing, pain in my right temple. I looked up, drew my hand across my forehead, and saw Dr. Boyn- ton. I tried to turn a little on one side, but I could n't. '"Am I lame?" said I, slowly and suddenly. He smiled one of his rare smiles, and said, - "Yes, a very little lame." "Will I have to lie liere lone?" "Perhaps not. I hope not more than two or three weeks." Two or three weeks seemed to me almost a lifetime; I Was so frightened, exhausted, nervous. I turned my face to the wall and cried, as silently, quietly, as I could. "Mother could help me," thought I, '"if she were only here." I supposed the Doctor heard the faint heart-aching sob I was trying so hard to repress. "Here is your Palladium," said he. "And Harry and the horse?"I said, faintly. "All are safe. We'll talk about that to-morrow," he said; "but see, here is your calladium; it has been three weeks getting as bright as it is now; that ruddy glow was some days coming in those ruby veins; but see, now, isn't it beautiful?" and he moved the plant so that the sun shone throllugh its leaves, giving it a brillian charnm. I smiled through my teIrs. "Yes," I thought, "I must wait as long as the calladium to get bright and come out again.", The Doctor sat down by -me, bathel0 my temples, and as I turned over I saw a little bunch of heliotropes on the pillow beside me; the subtle, delicate odor cheered me. "Only a little while ago," I thought, " they had been holding lip their heads in the sunshine; now they were plucked, taken away from their native borders, cut off, soon to droop ;" yet they lay there, smil- ing as sweet and- bright as ever. "You come to teaclI me a le-:son," I thought. "You will never go back to your home in the garden again. I am only here a little lwhile, yet I am impatient." The kind hand still bathed and soothed mny aching forehead. I was too weak to feel much, but that fearful ache and ceaseless throbbing at my temples. I remember how the words of the fourth chapter of Timothy, I was reading that morning, came in my mind, as just before I closed my eyes I thought of TOGETHER. 89 the eleventh verse. As I felt the kind Doctor's tender, gentle hand' on my aching head, I fell asleep, thinking of the words, "Only Luke is with me." I awoke in a few moments from my half- delirium - not sleep; I repeated the words again, "Only Luke is with me; "I moaned; I was feverish, and not half conscious. Some one around my pillows darkened the room, moving about noiselessly. I could see the fire in the grate. To move, was agony; to stir, torture. I slept again. When I awoke, the Doctor was feeling my pulse. There was ice on my tongue, ice on my temples. "Luke, the beloved physician, greets thee," I thought, as I turned-over, and closing my eyes, fell into that half- unconscious state again. After awhile, when I suppose they thought me asleep, I heard the Doctor whisper to Jane, "Don't leave her a moment. If there is any cliange, lei me know it." A long time after, I heard Jane say, "I did n't see the Doctor; I only saw his wife. She said she would send him right around;" and I fell asleep again. I remember, when awake againl, wonder- ing how "the Doctor's wife " looks, and then thinking I must have lain there a great many days. I thought I saw myself in a coffin, and I heard them cloing the lid. I was alive, only I could n't speak ; but I could feel the choking, stifling sensation, and then this verse came tolling through my soul like a faint funeral bell:-- "There is a state unknown, unseen, Where parted souls must be; And but a step doth lie between That world of souls and me." page: 90-91[View Page 90-91] 90 TOGETHER. CHAPTER XIII. COMVING, BACK TO LIFE. "( GIVE me the glass, Jane," said I one morning, after I had lain on the bed three or four weeks. "Let-me brush your hair, Miss Louise," said Jane; " it will tire you too much; you are weak yet." "B ring, me the glass," I said, a little imptatiently, vexed at Jane for not complying with my request immediately and with her usual promptness. "Wol't you please wait till afternoon? Have a nap first; I 'm afraid you will tire yourselft' she replied, evidently uneasy arnd distressed. "Wait until after the Doctor comes." "I 1 don't think I'm too weak to look in the glass," said I, dignifiedly. "' I wish it now "w- and Jane rose up slowly and brought me the glass. "Open the shutters, Jane," said I; "I can't see." "( I 'm afraid the light will hurt your eyes," said she, hesitat- ingly, and only openingr the shutter so as to let in a very little light. "Open them wide," said I, imperatively. This tinte she obeyed, and the clear light streamed in full on the little mirror and on my face in the mirror. There was a big, ugly mark on one side of my cheek, just below my right temple! I started, dropped the glass on the bed, looked a mo- ment at Jane, and said, "Was I hurt there, Jane?" "Yes; but the Doctor says in a few weeks it will all be healed, - there 'll be no scar." "What did the Doctor do with it?" said I. "He sewed it up," said Jane, evidently frightened, but deter- mined to keep nothin back fiornom my peristent questioning. "Did I scream or stir?" said I. ' No, ma';im; you lay perfectly still, just as if you were asleep," said Jane. The Doctor may have given me chloroform, thought I. Well, I am very thankful it iaas done. I should n't have liked that big, TOGETHER. 91 ugly scar on my face.' I am thankful the Doctor sewed up the wound in time. It looks badly now, but it will be all right by and by. The door-bell rang, and Jane went, for Margaret had gone out. ' Who was that, Jane?" said I. "The young gentleman," she answered, slowly. "What youngr gentleman?" "The one that came home with you that day; he comes here every day to ask how you are." ' What do you mean, Jane? No young gentleman ever came home with me in the daytime." ' "The young gentleman that brought you home that day you went to ride with larry, ma'am." 'C Oh. yes, I understand," said 1, trying to go back and recol- lect a li tle. '"I was brought home, was I? How long have I been here. Jane?" "A little mnore than four weeks, ma'am." "Four weeks! four weeks! and you say the young gentleman has bIeen here every day? What is his name?" "I don't knlow, ma'am." "How does he look, Jaie?" ' He is tall, well-dressed, pale-faced, with black hair and black eyes." } "Were-you here when he brought me home?" "Yes, mlalam." ' Did I say anything?" "' I think rot, nai'am; you were stunned like, when the young gentleman went after the Doctor." "Wllo laid me on the bed?" "'The jYo,ungr gelntleman, - he bathed your forehead a little; he seemed very anxious." "Was the-e anything on the bed?" "Yes, ma am, your portfolio. It fell off, and the young gentle- man picked it up and put it up there in the book-case; it has been there ever since." "Did anything fill out?" "Nothing but two or three little scraps of paper, and the gen- tleman picked them up and put the:n carefully in the folio." "Was there any writing on the pieces of paper?" "Oh, I'm sure I did n't notice, ma'am." "Bring ms my folio, Jane," I said; and she brought me the folio. page: 92-93[View Page 92-93] 92 TOGETHER. "Hold it for me," ,I said, "while I take out the papers." I took out several sheets of paper and some letters, and three little scraps of blue paper, - all the small pieces there were in the folio. ( Those were the pieces, ma'am," said Jane. "I remember now they were blue paper, and they dropped out and fell in two or three different places, one at a time; one came just where I sat." "Jane," said I, " try and think, now, did the young man look at either of them as if bhe saw anything on them?" "I think he only started just a little, as he picked up the last one, and I remember thinking that he might have had a stitch in his side, after "--- and she stopped, and did n't finish her sen- tence. "Never mind, Jane," said I; "I understand; you think he had a pain in his side after carrying me up stairs." "Yes, ma'am."- "You needn't be afraid to tell me anything now," said I. "Jane, I've got my senses now, and I don't think I shall lose them agaitn;" and I told Jane to put up the folio, and I still held those three pieces of blue paper in my hand. There, on each, in plain, large letters, was my adopted signature, "Laurence Greenleaf." I was very weak, very ; it seemed a great effort for me to think at all. It took me a long time to ask Jane these few questions, and-my brain seemed confused if I tried to remember anything. One moment I felt as if I had n't a thought in my head, and the next as if a great ocean of thought was rushing ill, and each thought like a big wave overwhelming the other,--as if my brain were actually rolling, surging, heaving like the sea, and I trying to rest my mind on some still, calm shore. I wished I could keep one clear, quiet thought in my head, --just one cohe- rent, sensible thought. "Jane," said I, " put these bits ot paper in the fire," and she threw them in the grate. "Are you sure they all are burned up, Jane? did n't you drop one of them?" "No, ma'am; they are all burned up." And-yet I was so weak and nervous, because I could n't sit up in the bed and see them burn, I still feared that in some way one of them might have escaped the flames and be hiding in some corner, where some other eye might read the words, "Laurence Greenleaf." TOGETHER. 93 I was so nervous and weak that night, I could not sleep, and early in the morning, when Jane came in to fix the fire, I said, "Jane, I shall sit up awhile this morning. If that young gentle- man comes to the door to ask how I am, will you tell him to walk up stairs? I 'd like to see him." "Yes, ma'am," said Jane; "I 'll not forget." But the young gentleman did n't call that morning, nor the next, and nobody seemed to know who he was or where he lived; nobody hnd seen him at the door any morning but Jane. The morning I was hurt, nobody saw him but Jane. Mr.., Harwed was out, and all I could get out of Jane was this very clear, valuable information, that his hair was black, but not so very black; he was tall, but not so very tall; thin,. but not so very thin. I lay there and cried from vexation that somebody had per- haps saved my life and I could n't even see him and thank him. Somebody was certainly stupid, or they would have found out. That somebody 1 should like to have scolded; but who should I scold? Every morning on my table has been a little bunch of fresh flowers, - not a bouquet, but a cluster. One morning it was simply balm, another a cluster of heliotropes, and the next it would be mignonette. Yesterday morning, there was a cluster of- ama- ranths with heliotropes in the centre. I thought of the language of the flowers: the heliotrope is devotion, and the almaranth im- mortality. The :amaranths encircling the heliotropes was a beautiful symbol of the immortality of devotion, and this morn- ing there were camellia japonicas - a bouquet of them with helio-. trope in the centre - devotion in the centre ; and all around it the flowery fact written in the japonica's fairy leaves, "My destiny is in your hands," and for days after I was hurt, there were sent little clusters of balm; I know some one sent them as a silent token of sympathy. "Jane," said I, :" who sent me those fowers?" "I don't know, ma'am; there 's been a new bunch every day." "Did n't Arthur Glenstein send them?" "Oh, no, ma'am:; he sent those large fine bouquets, with almost every kind of flower in them, but these little bunches a boy always brings." "What kind of boy, Jane?" "There's been, a different boy most every morning, ma'am- I never saw any of 'them before; this morning the boy was little and pale." page: 94-95[View Page 94-95] " TOGETHER. 6 Well, the next boy that comes, be sure, Jane, and ask him to come up stairs." "Yes, ma'am," said Jane. But the next boy never came; the flowers came no more. After I was able to go about, con- fited to my bed no longer, only the next day on the hall-table was a little basket of fresh blue violets, and a card in the basket with "Louise Greenville" on it. Nobody seemed to know whence it came, nor how it got therm Oh! I thought, if I could only manage things myself, and not leave so many thngs to bunglers, who never see what you want to have seen, or do what you want done; they let your best chance slip right by them, and it sails off so far in the future you 'll never catch it again, never see it, never hear of it. All you get out of threm is, --"Oh, I did n't know you cared anything about it. If I had only known," they keep saying, with smooth face and undisturbed temper. A lost opportunity is a hlarrowing, torturing thing, - lost, lost, and nobody ever finds it. Opportunity is the one little foot-bridge between you and happiiness; you milght cross it without wetting your feet to-day; but with to morrow's freshet!estiny and Fortune widen the stream, then and thereafter, forever into an impassable, unbridged ocean. Once I asked Jane if I talked much the first week I was here, and what I said. "Yes, ma'am," said she; "I remember you talked about some Mr. Greenleaf- Laurence Greenleaf, I think that was the name; you used to be in a kind of dream and think you was writing, and then you would say that name over." TOGETHER. 95 CHAPTER XIV. i:ONLY LUKE IS WITH ME. ONE morning I open my eyes, and there sits Mildred by my bed -yes, Mildred herself; she walks now; she is only a little- lame; she stoops down and kisses me tenderly, as I say I am so glad to see you, sister Mildred; she is a sweet, gentle nurse - she is my greatest comfort; she reads to me, sings to me, and antici- pates every little want. Dr. Boynton thinks she will entirely recover from her lamneness in time. It was not hip disease; I don't know what he called it, but some new scientific name; but he has safely, successfully, and scientifically treated it. Mildred is very grateful to him, and it must please him to see her move about with so much ease. There was a time when I thought she could never walk again; it seems to me almost a miracle to see her walking now; but some of Science's doings are miracles. I dislike hearing or giving the details of disease, - dosing and nursing, how many pills I took and of what size and color, how many powders and ihow dissolved, how many plasters and how applied, how many lotions used and what mianner of bottles con- tained them, or in what form and size spoon said medicines were administered,-- enough for me I was sick, and am now well; my constitution and disease have had a battle, and the constitu- tion has triumphed. I wish in every battle the constitution would triumph. Weeks before I was sick, I was sinoing, one morning, the "Rainy Day;" trying to sing it of course in Dempster's rare style. Of course I failed sadly. No one ever suspects me of having either Ia fine, flexible, powerful, or musical voice; and if I should do nothing but sing for ten years to come, I am sure it would grow no more wonderful or musical. I suppose I oughlt to be thanlk- ful, so long as I can sincg a little for myself, or even soothe a tired child with a low lullaby to sleep, or join with the great congregation on Sabbath morning in dear Old Hundred, jubilant Coronation, or soaring Amsterdam. page: 96-97[View Page 96-97] 96 TOGETIIER. I wish I could sing melodiously, divinely, as Arthur Glenstein says, sometimes, and expre s every varying shade of emotion in thrilling, soaring song. ladam Reati said my conversational tones were so sweet and Musical she was sure I would sing well; but she was mistaken. a took lessons of her three years, and I can't sing the high notes without squealing yet. But as I went on singing the "Rainy Day " that morning, Mildred joined me in the first line of the second verse, and sung it through, till, instead of following me, I followed her. She sung it with great sweet. ness, clearness, and expression. Right after breakfast, I went round to see Madam Reati, and get her to call in here on*her way to her morning lessons; she came round, tried Mildred's voice, and commenced giving her instructions. Mildred learned e very rapidly; she has evidently inherited her mother's voice and musical talent; she would sit upon the bed and sing, and I would often hear her warbling like a bird, when she thought she was alone. One day when I am sitting in my rocking-chair,-Mildred has fixed me very comfortably, bolstered me up with pillows, and put a cushion at my feet,- Dr. Boynton comes in to see md. The door between the rooms is closed, but not latched; Mildred is singing in the other room. "Whose voice is that?" the Doctor says, turning suddenly and listening. "It is Mildred's; she is practising; she expects Madam Reati this morning at eleven." The Doctor rises, pushes the door very gently open, walks softly in, and makes no noise, for his boots never creak-- Doc- tors' boots never should; he- goes quietly in and stands -behind Mildred as she sits at the piano, her thoughts and attention com- pletelyfabsorbed by the words,she is singing. She seem& pouring out her whole heart in an imploring wail and impassioned prayer, as she sings,-- "Backward, turn backward, O Time in your flight, Make me a child again, just for to-night; Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore." I hear, through the half-open door, the deep full tone6 of the sweetest, richest manly voice, mingling with hers as she sings the last two lines of the chorus,- "Never liereafter to wake or to weep, Rock-me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep." TOGETHEIR. 97 There was a sweet balm, a soft lullaby in Dr. Boynton's voice, as he sung those words with a pathos I can never forget,- "Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep." Mildred does nit seem surprised, startled, or embarrassed, but sings on through the song as if inspilred; the louder and clearer his tones, the sweeter and more musical hers. I never heard her sing so well, nor did I ever hear voices chord better; they float along like two white sails over the tide of song, wafted by the same breeze andi bound for the same shore of rest. Mildred pauses a moment, and the Doctor sings,- "}ily child, my child! thou art weary to-night; Thy spirit is sad, and dint is the light; Thou Would'st call me back from the silent shore To the trials of life, to thy heart as of yore; Thou longest again for the loving care, For my kiss on thy lips, my hand on thy hair, But angels around thee their loving watch keep, And angels, my child, will ' rock thee to sleep.' "Backward?" say Onward, ye swift-rolling years; Gird on thy armor! Dry up thy tears! Count:not thy trials, nor efibrts, in vain, They I11 bring thee the light of thy childhood again. Ye should not weary, my child, by the way, But watch for the light of that brighter day; Not tired of ' sowing for others to reap,' Nor angels, my child, will ' rock thee to sleep.' "Nearer thee now than in days that are flown, Purer the love-light encircling thy home, Far more enduring the watch for to-night, j Than even earth-worship away from the light; Soon the dark shadows will linger no more, Nor come at thy call from the opening door; But knowest, my child, the angels watch keep, And soon, very soon, will ' rock thee to sleep. " Mildred listens as if spellbound; then breaks out suddenly with these words, - "O for the peace that floweth as a river Making life's desert-places bloom and smile; O for that faith to grasp the glad forever, Amid the shadows of earth's little while." Again the manly voice joins in. There's a knock at my door, - 't is Jane. There's some one at the door waiting for the Doctor; one of his patients has had a sudden stroke of paralysis, and the Doctor is. hurried off, and again the carriage-wheels drive rapidly away. 7 page: 98-99[View Page 98-99] TOGETHER. Mildred sits quietly by the piano; she leans her head upon her hand as if lost in some kind of dream. She sits there without stirrina a long, Iona time; I don't speak to her; I have a rever- ence for sch moods. I have them myself sometimes. In two weeks more I am able to be out. I come home in fine spirits one morning. I have at last secured the place for Mildred in Doctor Rosegood's church, at three hundred dollars a year, and I have found her four singing pupils for twelve dollars a quarter. Meantime she is to continue taking lessons of Madam Reati. Mildred is delighted. I am really afraid in the triumph and joy over newly acquired prospective independence, as she waltzes. around the room in all sorts of grotesque movements, she will dance herself lame again. I never saw a creature more happy, and I am about as pleased as she. I can't help thinking of my sitting down in the pew next Sunday, and looking up ) at her sweet face in the choir. I was right in thinking Dr. Boynton had a musical eye. Sunday comes; Professor is to preach in Doctor Rose- good's church, and he always attracts a large crowd. I go, and everybody goes; everybody I know is there. The usher puts fle in the front pew, right-hand middle aisle. Dr. Boynton valks in; he places himself in the front pew on the other side, where Arthur Glenstein is already seated. I am a stranger in this church; I was never here before. There is only one vacant seat left in the pew where I am sitting. As I look at the white roses in the vase on the desk, a gentleman comes in and takes the vacant seat beside me, and I know, though I don't look around, that it is Ernest Heart; and it is he. The quartette sing a voluntary. It is,- "Thy will be done! Thy will be done! In devious way 1 The hurrying stream of life may run, Yet still our grateful hearts shall say, Thy will be done!" Ernest Heart joins in, and sings with low, sweet pathos, the last verse,- "Thy will be done! though shrouded o'er Our path with gloom, one comfort, one, Is ours-to breathe, while we adore. Thy will be done!" There is a quiet strength, a subdued power in a man's voice that touches me more than a woman's voice can. You feel in its TOGETHER. 99 most subdued tones, that it can burst forth at any moment, almost, without effort, in overpowering fullness. The sweetest woman's voice I ever heard sounded to me as if there was great effort; as if it was taxed to its -utlost; and the highest notes were almost painful to me. I feared one higher effort still would give pain to the singer; but man's highest notes sometimes break on tile ear like wave after wave in the tide of song. You don't fear the effort will exhaust; there's an ocean of melody above and beyond. I can't help it, but I don't like to hear a woman speak or lecture in public. In order to be heard by a crowd, she ele- vates her voice unnaturally at times, -strains and- taxes it. It seems to me that' the best woman-lecturer that ever takes the public platfborn, has in her highest tones something of a squeal, and the charm is gone. ' Thd fir. t hymn is read. The choir rises; Mildred blushes, then turns pale. I itremble; I am afraid to look up at her; I can hardly hear the first line, nor the second; her voice falters, trembles, flutters like a frightened bird. I tremble; I can scarcely breathe. O! she will fail; and she is so sensitive she will never recoverlfrom it; but all at once, like a lark above the clouds, her voice soars, rises, it thrills me -it can 't be Mildred; she is going beyond herself; she sings two lines all alone; her voice fills the house; all eyes look up in wonder and admiration; two or three whisper near me, "Who is she? who is she?"Ernest Heart and I are looking over the same hymn-book; my hand trembles as I hold the book; I am so* provoked and annoyed that 1 blush like a nervous school-girl; but the very thought that my hand trembles so makes it tremble all the more. 1 am glad 'when the last verse is sung. The text is, "No mention shall be made of coral or of pearls, for the price of wisdom is above rubies." I think of the lines I wrote in the "Cosmos," and I blush again. Just before church closes there is a sudden shower; there is not an unmbrella in church; so most of the people wait. I see Miary K in a pew near me; so I go and talk with her some moments. I have left my fan in the pew; I come back to get it; Erlnest Heart has just gone, and lie has left his hymn-book. I take it up, see his name in it and some lines just written with a pencil; they are dated this morning; he must have been writ- ing while it rained. I suppose I am wicked, but I read them. "She stands beside a pillar fair, A maiden girlish-slight, page: 100-101[View Page 100-101] 100 TOGETHER. But stronger than the column there Her innocency's might; And simple straight her thoughts go up, in purest white arrayed, And far above the pillar's shaft their resting-place is made. "She stands beneath the arching lines That o'er the chancel sweep, And on her brow the holy signs Of peaceful conscience sleep, And higher than the arches' height her steadfast eyes do look, The while they meekly seem to faill upon her open book. "Anon the organ's minstrelsy, And all the choir join-in; But she, albeit her silency Is holier than a hymnk; For ' Jubilate Domine' her -every look doth show, And ' Gloria' is writ upon the brightness of her brow." "I suppose he looked up at Mildred and wrote these lines about her," I say, as I lay the book where I find it, and walk down the aisle, saying over the last two lines ; they are so beau- tiful I --can never forget them. I meet Mildred at the door; I I can see "Jubilate Domine" in her eye and "Gloria " on her brow, as I look into her face. "Mildred, how well you did!" said I, as I took her hand. "I was afraid you would fail at first; I knew you were embarrassed; it was a great ordeal for you to pass, you have been so long shut up with only me for an audi- ence, and the church was so crowded to-day. "I was very much frightened, at first," said Mildred, "as I , looked- up and saw the sea of faces below me. I felt as if my heart was a little boat on a great ocean, without any rudder, or anchor, or sail, - as if nobody could steer or guide, and I must go down or be wrecked alone. I knew I should fail,-my voice o was gone,- -and if I failed this time, I never could enter a i: church or meet a human face again. Something said to -me, ' What did you come here for? You miglit know you would 4 fail;' but I happened to look down once, and I saw Dr. Boyn- ton's upturned face, and that look in his eye-' Don't be afraid, \ Mildred!' I thought I would n't fail while he was there. I shut my eyes a moment, and tried to think ' only Luke is with j me.' I forgot the crowd; something kept me up. I felt as I did that morning when I was singing alone with Dr. Boynton,-- that I could sing the whole book through, without faltering or wavering." "I never heard you sing as well," said H; " the ordeal is past." My heart sends up its te deum. Mildred, the poor, lame sewing- TOGETHER. 101 girl, is well; sh ss; s in dependent. I have seen her, like an eclipsed, hidden star, come out from behind the cloud, and my poor hand has helped remove the cloud. I thought, as I looked over this morning's paper, at the very liberal donations to the various grand, conspicuous, and popular charities, that it would look benevolent, munificent, generous, for Louise Grenville to put doewn fifty dollars for the relief of home- less orphans, or a hundred for the Young Men's Education Soci- ety; but as Cavanilles, the Spanish botanist, liked, through his micrometer, to see the grass grow, so I must confess I like to see the good grow. It seems to me no very great charity, but rather a sorrowfifl thing, to give a man a loaf to-day, while he goes hlun- gry to-morrow, or a poor ragged boy a cap this winter, while the next he goes bareheaded. I would n't be contented to join a great loaf and cap society, to give a hundred barehleaded, lhunry boys a loaf and a cap; I would rather hunt up one bareheaded, hungry boy, and keep him with a loaf in his hand and a cap on his head till he is able to keep himself fed and covered. To see Mildred's success, her joy, does me as much good, and per. haps more, as to see a long line of sorrowful, pale-faced, orphan chldren, waltkin slowly and solemnly back fronom church to their only retreat in the orphan aJylum. Is n't one life complete bet- ter than fifty helped a little? I sat in my rocking-chair and fell asleep, thinking of Mildred, and dreamed that 1 was most elegantly dre'ssed, and Dr. Boyn- -ton came in and said we would go to New York, to the Acad- emy of Music,--for it was the night of Mildred's benefit; and we went, and Mildred, dressed like a fairy, in a white robe adorned with start, stood on the stage and sung enelrantingly; she was assisted by the most celebrated pianists and vocalists; but she was the star of them all, and from the galleries showers of bouquets fell at her feet. A slight noise awoke me,-I started,-there stood Mildred by my side with a bouquet in her hand. "Where did you ret that," said I, " Mildred?" '7I don't know, JI found it on my table; some one has sent it; I can't find out who. Is n't it beautiful?" Mildred has been in a perfect state of excitement ever since she has been able to walk; I never saw a creature happier. It is foolish to tell one's dreams, but last night I was reading De Quincey's Suspiria," and I could n't help think some people ! * page: 102-103[View Page 102-103] 102 TOGETHER. ,don't think enough of dreams. I read this in "Suspiria," and I copied -it, for the book is n't mine: ' "The dreaming faculty, in alliance with the mystery of darkness, is the one great tube through which mAn communicates with the shadowy. The dreaming organ, in connection with the heart, the eye, and the ear, compose the magnificent apparatus which forces the infinite into the chambers of a human brain, and throws dark reflections from eternities below all life upon the mirrors of the sleeping mind." I dreamed that dream over last night about my father, - and : to me a dream of the loved and lost fulfils more than anything else the boast of Parcelcus, - that he " would restore the orig- inal rose or violet out of the ashes settling fromn its combustion "; for a dream brings back fi'om the ashes of the past, Joy's sweet, dead rose, and Love's lost violet. TOGETHER. 103 CHAPTER XV. THE DOVE IN THE HEART. "He shall give His angels charge concerning thee." I NEVER was nervous before, but I suppose I am a little ner- vous now. The first walk I took in the street after I was hurt, it seemed as if!every coming carriage was going to run over me, and I would start and run at the least clatterinog on the'pave- ment, as if a whole regiment of evils were pursuing I went to the Astor Liblary this morning; I have n't been there in a long time. If I were a man, and wise and patient enough, I thilk I would make another catalogue for that library. If I know who the author is, I can find any book I want, but if I don't know who the author is, and only know the namne of the book, I may look a long time before I find it. The gentlemen seated by those six little tables and two long ones, seem to have found exactly the book they want;- some of them have sat there, without stirring, an hour. I am in a corner by myself, looking over Allan Cunningham's ', Songs of Scotland "; I look up a moment, and I see a gentleman, seated at the first of three little tables, at the left hand of the librarian, with the three blue and gilt volumes of Mrs. Browning's Poems before him. He is taking notes in that little black book. He is so long at that one place in the book I think he must be copying some en- tire poem. I go iup to the librarian to get another book, and on the desk before me is one of those little papers with the signature and the name of 'the book; the date is the fifteenth; the book is Greek Lyric Poets," and the name - Ernest Heart; and standing by my s'de, waiting for the Poets, is - Ernest Heart. He has finished Browning, and is going to look over some Greek. I get my book and return to my seat. In about half an hour, Ernest -Heart put up his three volumes of Greek Poets, and turns to go out, walks a few steps, and goes back and asks for that small, blue, paper-covered book again; looks it over as if * ',' ' 1 -# , I page: 104-105[View Page 104-105] 104 - TOGETHER. hunting for somethlling, returns it,- tosses the paper into the bas- ket. The librarian says, "Shall I reserve it for you until to- morrow?" Mr. Heart says, "Yes, if you please; " and walking by the tables, looking at the backs of the books in the alcoves as he passes out into the theological room, he asks a question there, and walks down the stairs - -he is gone. I go up, put my book on the desk, toss my paper into the bas- ket, and see, lying close beside it, a paper with Ernest Heart's name, and English and Greek Lexicon, by Henry R. Hamilton, written on the lower part of it. That was the little blue-cov- ered book he asked for the second time, and there is the book, lying beside the open catalogue before me. The librarian takes it, puts a paper in it, and lays it back on the table where rows of reserved books wait for to-morrow's readers. Before he lays it there, I take it up a moment, and look at it. It is an admi- rable book, - so useful to a scholar, -and I am such a dunce that I never have seen one before, though I have tried to borrow one of all the learned friends I have. There are plenty of Greek and English Lexicons, but none, that I get hold of, turning the English into Greek. Browning's Poems, Greek Lyrics, Eng- lish and Greek Lexicon, - I say to myself, - it must be a great deal of trouble for him to come way 6ver here to read, so often. I go out of the library, for it is - so the umpire of that book- wrld says -- half an hour before sunset; the hour for closing the library; but I always think sunset comes earlier to those Astor Library windows than anywhere else in the city. It is still light and pleasant outside, and I pause a few moments to see my friend the German sculptor at work. How beautiful he has made that old gentleman's head in marble!"Many of the wrinkles are left out," I say. "o, yes," says the sculptor, " there 's no use in having so many wrinkles in marble, - the old gentleman don't mind about it." The brow is beautiful, and the brow in some noble faces never 'grows old; it is the last to feel and show the touch of time, and sometimes it is like a citadel, lofty and secure; no trouble ever storms it. In the noblest human face, the brow is often left clear, smooth, calm, like hallowed ground. It will be unruffled and beautiful as the blue sky above the clouds, though eye and cheek and lip have faded and dimmed with grief and time. There's heaven above the eyes, while beneath tears and sighs and sorrows swell and heave, and mar the once clear, cloudless face. , TOGETHER. 105 The sculptor asks five hundred dollars for a cast of Louise Grenville in Italian marble. B" ut I 'II wait to have my life wrought out in purer marble," I say, as I walk on up Broad- ray. y. Life's work is almost all in plaster; we mould it, and it is full of wrinkles and roughnesses and furrows. Hereafter it will all come out in marble, --terrestrial plaster here, celestial marble there, "without spot, or wrinkle, or any such thing." As fast as the plaster moulds here the marble grows there; but we get the expression here of that sweet marble repose and rest, and so our tried, furrowed souls need have no wrinkles there, as they are chiselled out of the rock of immortality. As the work grows, the great Sculptor raises the image up to its place among the gal- leries of immortals. We only see the common dull plaster here, but we 'll find our true face sculptured clear in God's great gal- lery above. I 've seen many a face when the brow looked as if it were done in marble, as if it lived in a different world from the rest of the face, as: if angels had already moulded it for the celestial gallery, and nothing sullied or dimmed or wrinkled it. Prayer and love and patience wreathe and crown and brighten and hal- low it. It is the outer sky of soul, where starry thoughlts come and go, and radiant stniles have their sweet dawn and soft sun- set. There are some touches here and there in the human face of the Great Master. As Ernest fHlart sat and read in yonder Library, you could see that his browl was one of those rare, royal, radiant, serene, sculptured browsi Care and poverty and intellectual toil have made many a rough line beneath it, and his eye is one of those clear, calm eye, never dullled and filled and darkened by the blinding motes of his neighbor's faults. It peers and dives and delves into the deepest, dimmest, darkest thought-world, search- ing and finding those priceless, precious pearls which great souls have gathered and strewn all along the shore of the past. I go home and down into the kitchen, and put the Iong rows of books and the beautifiul marble faces out of my head. I am going to make some jelly for a sick fiend. I have been so long at Mrs. Cater's, I go in the kitchen whenever I like. The girls don't mind having me around. 'Of course I know better than to go washing and ironing days; but if there's anything I can make good, it is wine-jelly. I like to make it because it page: 106-107[View Page 106-107] 106 TOGETHER. looks so tempting when it is done, and then most everybody likes it. In the corner by the window sits Margaret Cater, as the girls call her, - Mrs. Catet's up-stairs girl and waiter. This is her afternoon out. While Jane is wiping up the lunch- dishes, 'Margaret talks. She takes off her shawl, to show Jane how nice her new dress fits, and she got it all made for six slAil- lings. Miss Sewwell made it, Miss Sewwell boards at 1Mrs. Cater's, and has the third-story front-room, next to Mr. Heart's. "Did you ever hear Mrs. Cater speak of that son of her's that died? 'said Jane. "Never Jbut once," said Margaret; "that was this morning at the breakfast-table. I stood by her side, waiting to hand Mr. Heart his coffee. 'Mr. Baleria said something about a lecture next Thursday, - it was some kind of ' anniversary,' or some- thing, - and Mrs. Cater said to Mr. Heart, - he sat quite con- venient to her,-' Next Thursday is my boy's birthday. Arthur would have been twenty-four if he had lived until next Thurs- day." h "' Next Thursday is my birthday, too,' said Mr. Heart. "I never heard Mrs. Cater speak of Arthur before, but she often shuts herself up in a little room where sthe keeps all his books, and where his picture hangs. When she comes out, her eyes are redl, and she sighs very often; we girls don't say much to her then, if we can help it. I saw Mr. Arthur Cater two weeks bebfore he died; he was as handsome a young man as you would wish-- to see; he looked a little like that Mr. Heart that boards with us." "Has Mr. Heart any relations?" said I, as I was pouring the boiling water on to my dissolved gelatine. "Not that I know of, ma'am. I think there 's nobody belong- ing to him. On his bureau is a daguerreotype of his mother. You'd know, it was his mother: he's just her eyes, and nose, and hair. Mrs, Cater said it was his mother; so one day, when I was du;ting off his bureau, I took it in my hand and looked at it. I knew Mr. Heart would n't be home until four o'clock. It is n't always on the bureau - sometimes it is, and more times it is n't. I saw it once in the little top bureau-drawer.." I finished my jelly, put the moulds in the refrigerator, and went up-stairs. At ten o'clock the next morning I took a velvet bodice I wanted made, and went round to No. 8. I rung the bell and went up-stairs to Miss Sewwell's room by myself. I took TOGETHER. 107 the bodice, though I had never heard of such a dress-maker until the day before, when Margaret Cater spoke of her skill and success. But I knew, if she had eyes and hands and fingers, she could n't spoil a bodice. Ernest Heart's room-door was half open; so I slipped in a moment and out again. Perhaps, reader, as I took the precau- tion to knock gently, I might have thought it was Miss Sewwell's room, for neither you nor I knew whether Mr. Heart's was the third-story front or back room; but I would n't like to tell all I do or why, as there are lots of motives and deeds you'd hide care- filly from me. I don'thelieve there 's a person living that has nt something in its mind it does conceal from everybody,-- there's a veil and altar and a candlestick which'none but the High Priest ever sees; but that door was the first, and I entered it; and I left the room looking just as lonely, empty, and desolate as I found it, for I knew, though the air was still, the chairs dumb, that an Ernest Heart had beat there. One book, one picture, is one line of a mental photograph, one footprint of a departed or absent soul ;- yes, it was his room; and poor. Mrs. Cater-- God bless her! - kept it for him just as he left it. She was scrupu- ]ously careful to keep books and papers undisturbed, just as if he had gone out for a walk this morning, and would come home again when the old churcht clock on the corner should strike four. I took my bodice into Miss Sewwell's room, saying I would return again a little before four, with some guipure to trim it with. It was a lovely day. I went down-town; was there from ten until three. I had some little business to do. I accomplished it successfilly and satisfactorily, and went back a little before four to No. 8, with some guipure for the bodice. I promised to come again on next Thursday, and bring a silk skirt for Miss Sewwell to turn and trim. On my way out, I slipped in a moment into the back-room again, and I was very thankful to pass in and out unnoticed, undisturbed. Thursday came. I went round to No. 8 in the morning and came softly down-stairs again, having left my dress-skirt and got my bodice. About four that afternoon, Ernest Heart turned the corner. He had been boy enough to stand a moment at the confectioner's window and look at those big loaves of fruit-cake and dishes of jelly. How he would like some of that cake and jelly! He page: 108-109[View Page 108-109] 1 08 TOGETHER. walked slowly on toward No. 8 ;,he was thinking sorrowfully of past birthdays. Why should he hurry to that door; there was none -to welcome him. There was no eye in all the big world to brighten at his com- ing; no heart to ache at his departing, or sigh for his return. He remembered how, from her scant and failing fortune, his mother had always managed, each birthday morning, to surprise him with some little gift, - always the very thing he would value most, - and she never failed, with the gift, to put on his table a little loaf of frosted fruit-cake, He can remember now, how on Christmas morning his stock- ing would be full of treasure, each vacant space and interstice filled with red and white confectionery. He resolved long ago to grow up and be a big, man and keep a large candy:store, so that his pocket could always be supplied with smooth, sweet, shining sticks of lemon, wintergreen, peppermint, and molasses. That would be to him a future sugar paradise., Fourteen years ago to-day came "Robinson Crusoe "; then the sugar dream floated t away out of his head; he would grow up to be a big man, and sail away and find that island and live on it, eat all those luscious fruits; he would dwell in that strange-house, half bower, half tabernacle, half palace, so secure, so sheltered. He read the book six times over; he was bewitched and fascinated, though no real love-story, or fair woman's face, glows in all its marvellous pages. The next birthday he visited the menagerie, and resolved then, if he grew a big man, to be a hunt6r, and catch, and cage, and exhibit royal Bengal tigers, - fifty of them, - and he would find some way to tame them, so they would do something else beside march restlessly back and forth, as that one at Van Am- burg's did, in his ceaseless, dreary promenade up and down that narrow, cruel cage. He thought how some tiger-hearted men would rage and roar and rave, if they were put one day in such' narrow limits, away from their native hills and plains, deprived of their freedom of motion. Poor tiger! he had walked up and down Ernest Heart's memory ever since, and he did n't believe what the man said, that the tiger had n't one virtue, one good quality, - that he was implacable, unmerciful, cruel; - it was his theory that no animal or human being lived that had n't one ave- nue of head or heart or instinct that kindness could n't reach, gratitude could n't steal in. The next birthday came the whole set of Abbott's histories. His' mother went without the new O O TOGETHER. cloak she so much needed, and wore her old shawl all winter, just to get him those books; but they were a priceless treasure, a perfect gold-mine to his roving, rangina, restless mind. As he eagerly read them all, kings and crowns, robes and sceptres, bat- tles and victories thronged and thrilled his brain, and haunted through and hovered round his midnight dreams. Hlis seventeenth birthday found him longing to be a poet or a great man, as he read and repeated and sung the poet's wondrous melodies; but now he sighs as he sees the lights in the windows of Fame's palace, called Beautiful, just as far above and beyond him as ever. He is creeping still, - he has n't climbed up one little hill of eminence ; still Fame's snow-topped Alps rise before him, grand, glistening, glorious, unapproachable, inaccessible. All he can boast now, all he can congratulate himself this birthday on accomplishinrr or possessing, is this single, solitary, lonely laurel, neither green nor bright. He is out of debt; copying and compos- ing hlas paid him at last this little scanty pittance, and in his ve-t- pocket, beside, is one silver sixpence: that is his capital, but he- must needs pinch it till it squeals, to produce with it anything he wants on his tnenty-second birthday. As he walks on'he sees the ivy climbing up the sides of that old church on the co!ner, and then he wonders, for a certain palrticula reason of his own, what the Greek word for ivy is. He thinks it is kissos, but he is n't sure, and he wishes he had thoughit to look it up in the Lex- icon when he was at the Library. I' he only had the books and helps he watnted, and no harro\winog care for the morrov's-wants, he could-yes, he believed he could - write something that a world of critics even would count worthy; but his ship of so-1 could never sail fast and well, borne down and buldened with its heavy freight of care. Free and light, its airy sails must catch the breeze of inspiration as it comes, and be driven miohtily and gently into the desired, dreaded, delightful, dangerous port of Fame --if Ahe only could have the books he wanted. How he did love to read those Greek poets in the original, though only yes. terday hle met Prudence Potter somewhere, and she asked hinm " What good it was to know Greek? " He was sure he could n't tell her, so long as you could n't cook or eat it, or sell it, or put it out at interest. Greek, Greek! how many sighs Prudence had given over this useless book-learning. Sometinmes the thing that does us the most good we can't possibly tell of what good it is, any more than we can tell of what good is a star-ray, flower's balm, or bird's song; but to enjoy a book, one must have it in page: 110-111[View Page 110-111] "JLV - JLU .l JL-J .*L Dne's room, all to 'one's self, or with some one to read it one loves : better than one's self. The book must be your own; it must have a corner on the shelf, a favorite nook, one soon loves it so Well, one never wants it out of sight. "Oh dear!I said Ernest Heart, shrugging his shoulders as he went up-stairs,--it was rather cool without any overcoat or shawl,- "oh dear! I am so provoked with myself for not look- ing up two or three more words in that Lexicon. I suppose I must waste two or three hours rummagingff my old dic ionary, and not find them after all. When one writes, itis rather inconvenient to have one's books of reference across the ferry. I wonder how my neighbor, Miss Sewwell, would like it, when she's in a hurry to finish a garment, to have her needles all here and her thread in New York. What" a blunder I made the other day. I quoted A that passage about tempering the wind to the shorn lamb as comn- - ing from the Bible; if I had had Sternes in my library, I should have known better. Large ambition needs large resources. I i would make a most excellent, affable, learned, celebrated rich manl; but how to wear the robe of poverty gracefully and cheer- i fully, successfully and victoriously, I am sure I don't know. i If one hourly taxes and tasks the mind in making a safe shelter from poverty's cold, when and how shall be trained and twined the vines and -flowers round the soul's clustered shafts and thought's beautiful windows?" ! Ernest Heart walked into his room in a little of a fault-find- ing mood. Very good people find fault sometimes. So loig as a man can do one thing well, and he knows it, he can't be contented or at rest until he is doing it. The athletic soul is like a caged lion: how it longs to break the bars of cold, sharp necessity, and leap forth and roam all over the field of thought, and catch and grasp those m'ghty things it was born to master and to play with. There are winged birdl-souls that are trying to struggle and swim : in Trrouble's stormy tide when they could fly so high and sillng so melodiously in Fortune's clear, pure, upper air! They remind me, as I see them cramped and caged, of those beautiful birds taken from the pure air of some far, glorious, sunny land, and brought here and caged in those cruel tiny prisons in the dark, narrow stores in Beekman Street, where their heads almost reach the bats above, their drooping wings touch the narrow sides, and their feet rest on the bars beneath them. Anniversary days, too, to sensitive, susceptible natures, are al- ways gloomy or bright. If there's nothing to be seen or en- O TOUGETHiKE. 1" joyed or possessed, then Memory is on the alert to unroll her long, 'bright panorama of the past; and then she will suddenly merci- lessly drop the curtain, and shosw you how blank and tame and dull and worthless the present is; and just as she drops that cur- tain, she -will be sure to have Mademoiselle Regret come out from belhind the stagre of your heart, and sin that endless, traglic tearful solo, "It migtt have been." She sings it so clear, with such power and pathos, you sit and weep, as little fair youngo Longing, that star-actor in Sorrows 'theatre, comes out and chimes in her chorus "No one to love, None to caress." You hear it all day and at night, until you fall asleep; perhaps you will dream about it. These anniversary days are the heart's Echo Canion, a singular gorge in life's Rocky MAountains, where on either side, between the towering rocks, sound repeats itself seven times in long receding echoes. Here little restless Mademoiselle Regret had been singing her doleful songs in Ernest Heart's ears all day, waking their endless echoes. Ernest Heart walks into his room in the mood of those who ex- pect nothing, whose days are all alike, or one day only a shade darker and duller than its elder sister Yesterday. As he opens i the door, something suddenly arrests his attention. There breaks upon his face a smile such as he used to wear every birthday morning. On the mantel, quite near "Evangeline," is a dearer Evange- line still,--an imperial photograph of his mother, beautifully finished and framed. "How could that come here?" he said. "There is no picture of my mother in the world, only that little daguerreotype on my bureau."' He takes the daguerreotype, looks at it, compares it with the portrait. Yes. one is a copy of the other, - the same dress, collar, pin, the same waves in the hair; but the copy is more lifelike, it is even more belautiful and natural than the original picture. The eye looks as if that mother's hleart lon]ged still to enfold him in a loving, tender caress. There is n't a charm to add. He actually cries when he looks at it. lie would rather have it than. any gilt in the )world's possession. He feels somehow that she is with him still on this lonely birthday. He recalls vividly, as he gazes on those faultless, radiant features, the long years of her " page: 112-113[View Page 112-113] loving, tender care. Yes, he has a mother still. He is tired, he i has walked so far; he lies down a moment on the bed, and puts one pillows above the other to rest him better. As he moves the pil'ow, there's something hard under his head. He raises the pil- low; there is a pile of books,- Mrs. Browning's "Poems," "' The Greek Poets." and the coveted ' Lexicon." He takes it up and looks at it. Yes, it is just like-that one at the Library. On the little square, white paper, on the back of the blue cover, are these words,- . t SERIES OF EDUCATIONAL WORKS. "EXICON q OF THE i ENGLISH AND GREEK LANGUAGES. By HENRY R. HAMLTON. London: John Weals. "How did this come here?" he says, as lhe opens the book and turns over its first leaves, until he comes to I. He must find out the Greek word for ivy; and he was right about it: it is kissos. "' But where did the book come from? I don't believe it is to be : nad in any bookstore in New York; it is an English work. I suppose Scribner might perhaps send expressly for it; but I don't . see how one could be procured otherwise." As he takes all the books and rejoices over them, tears come again to his fine eyes. He takes the book, goes to the rocking-chair by the fire; but there is a bin shawl over the back of the chair. He throWs the shawl over his shoulders, for the fire burned rather low, hugs the books in his arms, and says, "I have n't had such a birthday for ave years." He repeats aloud some of Cowper's lines on the receipt of his mother's picture, traces with his pencil some lines about his mother's picture, and then, as he sits and gazes at the face, he says slowly, aloud,- "A portrait I see through the mists of time, Soft-painted and clear, with a skill sublime; And over the- picture no shadow lies, 'T is hung ink the beautiful morning skies. "A forehead as smooth as the touch of pearls, Limned out fi'om the sunniest mass of curls; The rarest of blue, in sweet, pleading eyes, O'er which the faint shadowy arches rise. Aw TOGETHER. 113 "Lips trembling with smiles, full blown into red, And moist as the dew the June-roses shed; While over the whole a tranquillity rests, And the soul of Love each feature invests. "The sun as it rises enlivens each hue, It deepens the red, and enkindles the blue A shower of gold it sweeps o'er the hair, The palms of the angels you 'd say had been there." He sits quietly thinking and looking into those sweet, pleading eyes, as he says,- "God only, who through thee has spoken, Shall keep the bended harp unbroken, Still to sing, Mother! Mother!" " Here's Browning for my soul, Greek for my head, Mother for my heart, the shawl for comfort: I'm almost a boy ag8ain," said Ernest Heart. There 's a tap at the door. 'T is Jane; she brings in a basket, takes out of it a large loaf of fruit-cake, much more beautifully frosted than that in the confectioner's window, and a glass dish with a beautiful mould of that so much coveted wine-jelly, and some clusters of wthite grapes. She arranges them nicely on the table, goes down-stairs, and brings up some saucers and spoons; and just as she goes out with the basket, Ernest Heart savs VWhlere did these come from ?:" "A boy brought the basket here this afternoon, and said they were for Mr. Heart." Now I do stay, there never lived a man so vesthetic, ethereal, or spiritual that he did n't sometimes like something good to Pat. If you ever did know any gentleman who liked fruit-cake, white grapes, and wine-jelly, you need n't ask me what Ernest Heart did with his. What is a birthday without flowers ? I should be doing great injustice to good, kihd, thoughtful MIrs. Cater not to tell you that she had placed that afternoon on Ernest Heart's table a little vase of heliotropes, just as every birthday, while he lived, she had placed the flowers on her boy's table. Ernest Heart, late that night, opened his Bible, and the first words he read were the beginning of this erese, - " He shall -give Hs 1anels c;harge concerning thee, and they shall bear thee up." As h fell aleep that night, the:e seemned a soft, heliotropal light bathing his soul, - every thought, feeling, memory, and hope, all turned their meek eyes to the sun, all sunwvard,--and lhis page: 114-115[View Page 114-115] "^t4 o .TOGETHER. soul was like that fairy flower of tropic climes, the Flor del Es- piritu Santo, so marvellously fragrant and-beautiful you can see down in its clear snowy depths, nestling in the heart of the ethe- real petals, the prone irnmage of a dove; so down in the depths of Ernest Heart's soul bloomed a flower, and in the heart of the flower was a littlh tairy-like dove brooding, and that dove was peace. TOGETHER. 115 CHAPTER XVI. THE INEVITABLE G. "I sleep, but my heart waketh."-- SONGS v. 2. AU,GUST came, and never was August sultrier or sunnier; city graDe-vines and city gras looked fairly yellow. I went to spend a tew weeks in a quiet country village, where we could go around all d'ay in sun-bonnets and calicoes, without fixing up or beauttifying,. I had been there about two weeks, when I heard the peop!e talking of a coming f'air; they had a sewing-circle every, week to prepare for it. They were anxious to have me help them; so the next Wednesday I put on my-black silk skirt alld white Swiss waist, and went to Mrs. Linnard's with Mrs. Dolis, though I did n't care aboult going. I supposed it would be dull. I went to p'ease Mrs. Dolis. The sewing-circle, as they called it, met at lMrs. Linnard's that-week. Mrs. Linnard has sometilnes boarders during, the summer season; but Mrs. Dolis sa:d that th s summer she believed she had n't any yet. Around the ttable sat a bevy of young rosy faces, laughing and talkilg, and making pin-cushions, needle-books, uwatch-cases, and lamp-mats. I heard some lightly creaking, manly boots moving aloyng behind Mrs. Linnard's capacious figure, but I did n't look up: I was counting the stitches around the purse I was crochet- ing. I supposed that some of the girl's brothers had slicked them- selves up after the day's harvesting, and had come to eat some apples and nuts with the girls. All the beaux I had seen hitherto in the village were tillers of the ground, bashful and quiet, except when they were out blackberrying with the girll, and about a score of them piled into a bia wagon together; then their tongues were all loosed, and they had a merry time of it; but put these same youths into the centre or near the circumference of a sew- ing-circle, they were as demure, distant, and decorous as possible. Yet these last pair of approaching boots did n't have the same kind of a squeak as their predecessors had had. It was a squeak, page: 116-117[View Page 116-117] JL JL0 'At'USi'l' l-11l. y.: but no clump or thump in it; it was not an alto squeak, but rather pianissimo. The previously entering boots had all sounded as if they did not feel at home on the owner's feet, - as if they were never out on duty, except perhaps on Sundays or Wednesdays. I still kept my eyes on my work, till I heard Mrs. Linnard say, as the boots made a sudden halt before me, -"Mr. Glell- ville, I make you acquainted with Miss Heart; Miss Heart, Mr. Grenville." She stammered and hesitated, embarrassed and conscious of making some mistake, yet not knowing exactly what, for she di - not know either of us well, and our names were not familicar to her. I looked up, blushed, and dropped my purse in fny lap. Ernest Heart, for it was he, bowed and blushed too, took the vacant chair beside me, and picked up the spool of silk I had dropped ;-the spool was almost empty. "You have a pleasant evening, Miss Grenville," he said, " for your sewing-society." This was evidently the most convenient observation for him to begin a conversation. "Yes," said I, " it is the only pleasant evening we have had for ; a week." . Therem was a pause: neither of us seemed to think of anything wxise or- bright to say. I used up all the silk on my spool, and ; took a skein from my pockett; with rather awkward and embar- rassed fingers I commenced untying the knot to open the skein, but unfortunately it was, as PI op)ened it, in the most intricate tangle. There was no use; I fussed and fidgeted at it a little; the more I pulled, the more it seemed tangled. "Let me hold it for you," he said. So he held it. I put it around his hands as carefully as I could, and commenced the hopeless, discouraging process of winding it, putting the spool through at almost every revolution. I was so anxious to be brief and skilful in the operation on the present hands, that I knew I should be five times as long and ten times as awkward as if the provoking skein were around Mildred's or Mary K----'s sym- pathetic and familiar feminine fingers. "It is a difficult thing to handle this -knotty subject," said he ; "it is the most intricate matter I have examined for some time, and, like tangled skeins of thought, the longer you work at it, the deeper, the more complicated the mystery grows." I had heard i gentleman say once, if you wish to test a lady's temper, or measure her patience, give her a tangled skein to - vW%.U.. "Joi 117 wind: so though, if I had been all alone, I most certainly would just cut the old skein at each end, and pull out what I could of it, and wind it, needleful by needleful, now I had no notion but of those dark eyes looking down upon the snarl in my unsuc- cessful hands. I had no notion of being conquered, foiled, or baf- ' fled by these few threads of silk. No, I would keep at it, if it took me two hours I thought, as I said aloud, "I never did be(in ny thing without finishing it." I came suddenly to a knot that looked as if it had been there for a year, and always would be there for years to come. I almost tied Ernest Heart's hands up tight, as I tugged away at it. "Let me wind, and you hold'a while," said he, pleasantly. I was delighted to have him make the offer, and get rid of the trouble without compromising my pride, perseverance, or pa- tience. As he *wound and I held, I don't know how he did it, but ' in a few minutes, in his self possessed, skilful, quiet way, he got the whole thing out of the snarl without breaking it at all. "I wish I could say that I had or could accomplish everything [ attempted," said he, as he stooped to pick up the handkerchief that had fallen fi'on my lap. It lay there, with my name written ;lear and plain in a vely conspicuous place,a-, Louise Gren- "Louise was my mother's name," said he, "and L. G. were the aitials of her maiden name." "L is a pretty letter to make," said T, " but I never could make decent G. I couldn't make up my mind about the lower part i f it; I can't make one without a flourish, and I don't like to lake orP with one. I don't know whether the end of the most pproved, most modern, most elegant G should go below the line 'not;-but as to marking handkerchiefs, that is a thing I dislike do so much that I often get some one to do it for me.' "I never saw but one G like that," said he, " and that I have oked at so often, I think I could imitate it xactly. Gren- He is a pretty name to write. I think there are few Gren- ie. in this country; I have never met-With any person sides yourself by that name, and I was looking in the directory, me time since, among the Gs, and I think there was no Gren- e among the list of Gs; so it can't be very common. There s every other possible name beginning with G, from Gregor y 1 Gordon to, Genin and Greenleaf. There were ever so80 ny Greenleafs," he added, looking in my fuijust then, as I accidentally. ... page: 118-119[View Page 118-119] I blushed, but went on. very rapidly with my crochetting. "There were ever so many Greenleafs," he added, "but not : the one I was in search of. I should be glad to find out his resi- dence, for he seems to be a good friend of mine. fie has been i a friend in need, and has shown a remarkable degree of that most right royal of traits and sublime of virtues -consideration. le. seems to understand my tastes so well, I should be most happy to meet him. 1 would search for, him, I thllik, through every cor- ner of New York, and travel after him even to the distant and and perilous Arctic regions, if I could find any northwlest passage to his mysterious and unknown residence. I think I am almost i a fool and ah idiot," he added, impulsively, "not to have folund him somewhere by this time, when lfe probably resides not fatr from me, judging from his accurate and exact knowledge of my j residence, habits, needs, and tastes. Are you acquainted with any Greenleafs in the city?" said he, looking i at me atgain in a :- most unconscious, natural, and innocent manner. "I am acquainted with two or three Greenleafs," said I. "I know one very old gentleman by that name." "Do you know a person by the name of Laurence GIreen- leaf?" said he, quietly, yet with great interest in his manner. "I have never met such a gentleman," said I; "I have never heard of such a gentleman; but in so large a cety as New York, I can conceive of such a person living or .tayving, without either you or I meeting with him or finding his residence." . "Then you have never known such a person?" A "No," said I, coloring. "Have you ever seen his name written anywhere?" "Thhat is a difficult questipon for me to answer," said' . ' I have a very good memor ,' as somebody once said, 'but I have a very good forgettory also.' I have seen so much written with- out noticing it, -so many names on charitable and subscription li-ts,- I would n't like to say, positively, no." "I have seen --it written," said he. " and the G was o much like the one on your handkerchief, it reminded me of it. I havea a most excellent memory, and no forgettory at all," he said, pleasantly. Just then, Emily Dolis came along, and asked me some ques- tion'; my thoughts were so preoccupied, embarrassed, and con- fused, that I answered, without knowing what she said, "Yes." She asked Erne-t Heart something, and he said, ' Yes," - and she went around the room, saying something to every one. / ^K There was a photographic album on the table before me; I took it up, in hopes to find something to talk about beside the Green- leaf family. Mir. Heart opened it. The first pictule, strange to say, was "Evangeline." "That, I suppose, is something you have never seen before," he said, laughing, and yet with the same wise look in hi~ eye. " Of course, caid I, "living in the city, I find it difficult to meet with so rare and unusual a picture. I have a faint impres- sion, a dim recollection, a slight reminiscence of having seen it, once or twice, somewhere." " Perhaps you are not so fortunate as I have been," he said. "I have a very fine one hanging up in my room, to which I hav e become so much attached that I could n't bear to come away and leave. it. It was hung there one very cold morninng we had the heaviest fall of snow we had all winter. Evangeline cime in a snow-storm. I shall never forget the day," he a ded; ' it was one of the most delightful days of my life;" and Ernest Heart still held the album open, with sunshine in his eye and a rare smile on his lip, looking at that little Evangeline. "I swish, he said, ' that every cold, lonely man could have an E-angeline hung in his room; it is a picture I never tilre of, thougih I see it every day and everywhere; I think it is a proof of the immortality of the picture. I never weary looking at it although I see it in every bookseller's window and every lady's alum, and meet it in almost every artist's collection. We never tire of those little blue violets in the fields, in the spring, because there are so many of them, or of the stars in the sky, though we see, at each evening,'s reception, such an innunmerable company of their bright, familiar faces. I don't think a bookseller's Wtin- dow can make Evangeline common or valueless; but Evan- geline idealizes, hallows, and beautifies the window, as daily prayer and hourly loves can never grow cold, or dull, or com- mon, in the humblest spot we finid them: they hallow the Ione- liest lome, and elevate and beautify the deepest poverty. I think Eva-ngeline's gentle face will linger in wayside window, and quiet parlor, and stately palace, while psalms of life are read, and "pine and hemlock murmur through the forest primeval." heard a young lady say once, as she passed along, as I was looking in a bookseller's window, she was tired of those Evan- gelines, - she saw them everywhere; but, like an old friend, or a good book, I like it better the longer I look at it, the oftener I meet it. Putting a flower in a beggar's hands does n't make it page: 120-121[View Page 120-121] 120 TOGETHER. common or worthless: the flower elevates the beggar, - the beg- a gar never disgrace, or lessens, or ditns, or brings down the glory of the flower; the more the ideal glows in windows, as we pass along, the more flowers we plant in paupers' hearts, the more stars gem forlorn, neglected souls, I believe in'scattering the beautiful, as God does the Tweet wild-flowers. The tendency of life's duties is so practical and hard, that in life's great Broadway of excitement we might almost forget we had souls, if there werel no Evangelines in the window, and baskets of blue violets, tube- I rose, and rose-buds by the wayside, as we pass through the , crowd, with weary heart, aching head, and throbbing brain. I P never see without pleasure those little boxes of winter-green berries in Canal Street; their rosy cheeks and woody flavor wake in me thrilling memories of boyish rambles through green woods. As I walk despairingly up the noisy, dusty thorough- far'e; they add a rosy charm to my prosiest moments. And as I hurry along, I often feel a breath of balm wafted to my soul, and I go back to bend over the sweet faces of those blue violets. 1 feel that something touches me, - the gentlest of spiritual in- fluences." , We looked through the album. There is a large, comfortable- looking lady, in cap and spectacles, in the last page of the album. "That is my cousin who lives in the city, Mrs. Mary Green- leaf," said Mrs. Linnard, coming along, unfortunately, just then. "Who is that?" said I, looking over at the other page, at a good-natured looking gentleman, hoping to turn the conversation from a dangerous subject. "4 That is her husband, Mr. Greenleaf," said she. '. ,' Is his name Laurence?" said Mr. Heart. "Oh, no; it is James, and his father's name was James, and his little boy's name is James*;-'t is a favorite name in the family." But Mr.: Heart, as he closed the album, evidently was not thinking of James first, or second, or third, for lie turned to me and said, "Miss Grenville, if you 'll only help me find out the res- idence of my friend, Mr. Laurence Greenleaf, I'll promise hence- forth and forever to unravel all the tangled skeins of silk, cotton, woollen, or worsted you ever have or may have, no matter how in- tricatet, interwoven, intertwined, or entangled soever they may be." "You are very kind, sir," said 1, wishing there never had been such a name as Greenleaf in the world, and that the. whole Greenleaf family would all vanish to Guinea, arid take the troublesome Laurence with them. TOGETHER. 121 "I am very thirsty," said I, rising suddenly. I started to go across the room through the nearest door, as that was the nearest way to the pitcher of water on the sideboard in the other room. As I reached the door I heard a low murmur, and then a half shout, as some tall form stooped over me and kissed me, softly, gently, tenderly, on my forehead. It was the lightest, most delicate, reverential of kisses; yet it was a kiss. i did not stir nor look up, but I knew Ernest Heart had given me that kiss. It was no rustic kiss, no; I shall call it, if you don't laugh, reader, an vesthetic kiss. I thought how it was, -it all flashed across me; I now knew what Emily Dolis's question was. There was a kind of game or play called forfeits, or porter, or toll-gate, or door-keeper, or something like it, by which the first lady passing through a certain door should receive a kiss from the first gentleman who should meet her there. "Would I play toll-gate?" that was the question Emily had asked me when I was so busy talking with Ernest Heart. I paid no attention, but answered, innocently, "Yes." I had rashy entered the enchanted door, and accord- ing to the inevitable, imperious laws of the game, I had paid the prescribed toll. It was all fair in play; and if I was preor- dained, predestined, doomed to be kissed in that partifular spot, by any particular person, I was more willing to have a kiss from those eloquent lips than I could have been from anv other. I believe I should have cried right out if any other person in that room had dared to kiss me. I never had a kiss from. any gentleman but my father, and I never meant to have excelt from the man I might intend some time to marry, - that man alone who 1 should pass throuogh the gate of my heart, by my own free wish and will,-- that man alone should receive that toll; and never until I had promised to be his should a kiss be given or taken; and I have always managed to keep out of these kissing-plays. Per- haps I am foolish, prudish, fastidious, but I never wished a kiss, save from lover or husband, - cousin I have none, -a kiss is so sacred. Modern society perverts and abuses it. I never will kiss any lady for form, or custom, or expediency's sake, nor for mere courtesy, unless I really love her. I will shake hands with her, eat with her, drink .with her, walk with her, help her, befriend her; but no living woman will I ever kiss, though she expects it, though friiends, expect it, unless I love her, unless my heart clasps hers. But I have been kissed to-nighlt by a gentleman, --that gentleman, one to whom only this evening--only two hours ago page: 122-123[View Page 122-123] 122 TO GETHER. --I was a stranger; but I would n't dare tell any one how I felt as I stood in that dqor. I shall never forget that kiss. I can feel it now, - it seems to linger on my forehead still,- gentle, dewy. Yes, on my brow has been this eveninog a kiss from lips inspired; even now through the land the honey of his words has sweetened bitter hours of lonely, despairing, aching hearts, - but I had the kiss. I went to the pitcher on the sideboard. The water was poured in a goblet for me by some hand,- I'm sure I did n't s4ee whose, - and I slipped back this time by another door into the most-quiet corner of the room, and resumed my crochettinO, though the rest had all put up their 'work; but no Mr. Heart questions or disturbs me more. I was sure that in the sphere of my care- fully directed eye no such being moved; he was certainly out of my sight just then. I felt relieved, and breathed fi'eely. There was only one piano in Pleasantville, and that is Mary Linnard's; she has had it about two months. Three'of the girls are taking- lessons, but neither have got beyond their exercises; so nothing would do, but I must play, as I carne from the city. There were only three pieces of music on the piano, - all Mary Linnard had as yet, and enough for her present needs. One of these pieces was, "Thou, thou reign'st in this bosom;" and I have n't seen the man yet for whom-I would play that. One of the remaining pieces was - "No one to love, None to caress."' My voice is quite apt to fail when I wish to do my best; I never could place any dependence upon it. When all alone with my piano, I believe in some moods I really have sung well; but I don't know as I could sing a tune clearly and correctly and melodiously through, in the presence of even a respectable cat. Mary K--- said, once when she stood in the hall, she over- heard me singing, and she waited outside until I had finished the song. She was surprised at, my vocal powers. But whatever powers they are, they: are of no use to me. I have self-control, self-possession; I am rarely embarrassed, never in talking, enter- ing, departing, advancing, or retreating; but-this dread of singing betore others is natural to me. There is all my bashfulness, diffidence, and tirnidity concentrated. Even a familiar eye fright- ens all the music .out of me. So I always say in conmpany, "I don't sing." But to-night I do sing. I sing "No one to love " quite TOGETtLJB:. 123 passably, respectably, as Ernest Heart turns over the music- leaves. The girls will have me sing it over two' or three times; and, as I sang, my confidence increased. Abstractedly runningr my fingers over tie keys, I struck the notes of a sweet little air (words by Eliza Cook) I had learned a little while ago to please Mary, when the manly voice behind me joined with me as I sung the words- " The heart - the heart - that's truly blest, Is never all its own; No ray of glory lights the breast That beats for self alone. " What though it throb at gentlest touch Or sorrow's faintest call, 'T were better it should ache too much Than never ache at all. " Oh, keep it not, like miser's gold, Shut in from all beside, But let its precious stores unfold In mercy far and wide." Ernest's voice is rich, 'clear, fall, and sweet, - it seems to add beauty and pathos to the beautiful words. The last piece of music is Von Weber's last waltz. I believe, if I play anything well, it is that. I can rarely play it through, or hear it played, without crying. It requires the most ethereal touch. As l play, I touch the keys as tenderly as I can. I arise from the piano and retire to my corner, and Ernest Heart comes and sits beside mne, and tells me something about that waltz. He said there was a young lady once who heard it in a ball-room, and she was so moved and thrilled by it that she fainted, and after her resto- ration she always felt she could never hear that waltz again,- she should die if she heard it. Thirteen years after she heard it again, and again fainted, and never recovered;- on her earthly ears never fell strains of music more! Those soft, ethereal, notes were the last she ever heard. Her spirit -was borne away from its earthly home with those low, dirge-like tones. That night I go home; I push back the curls from, off my fore- head, as I always do when I'm thinking or reading. I hold Mrs. Browning's Poems in my hand, and I open to this passage:- "A ring of amethyst I could not wear here plainer to my sight Than that first kiss." I read the beautiful lines about the second and the third kiss. page: 124-125[View Page 124-125] 12: ?TOGETHER. I mark the with a lead-pencil, and I can't tell, as I lie down at night to dr'eam, - but not to sleep, - I can't tell whether I am glad or sorry I had that kiss. I laugh, and then I Xcry as I think about it. But one thing I am not sorry'about: that I went to that sewing- circle on Wednesday evening, though I tltought it would be dull, and tiresome, and prosy enough; but I went because I thlought I oughlt to go. I started out in duty's dull, prosy path, and I found a flower, and that flower I shall press in the album of my heart for years. I shall not tell you yet what is the name of that flower,-it is in no Botany or Herbarium. Linnaeus never saw it--Beck never analyzed it- I can't classify it myself- I don't say it is liliaceous or roseaceous - but it is some kind of grandiflora I know, thoukh I can't tell the genus. I 've put it among the heart's grandlflora. I sleep at last that -night, but "my heart waketh" in happy dreams. TOGETHER. 125 CHAPTER XVII. THE ESCAPING TABBY, OR BROWNING AND BLUNDERS. I AM busy all the morning writing letters. I seal them up, direct them, and send them to the office. I put up my writing- desk, open my book of poems again, and read those delicious words over and over. I lay my book on my table, go down to dinner, and after dinner put on my gray cloak and straw hat, take my basket on my arm, and ramble through the woods. I sit down under an old tree and weave a wreath of laurels for some imaginary head, put the wreath in my basket, with a few wild flowers, fern-leaves, and evergreens, and trudge along down to the beach. I sit there a long, long time, gathering the shells, brushing off the sand, and polishing them with my handkerchief. I sit there with my lap full of shells and my head full of dreams; as I look off on the distant ocean, watching the white sails as they move slowly over the still water and vanish out of sight, and I wonder if my girlhood's dreams, so bright and beautifill, will ever float away out of my sight like those phantom, shadowy sails, and never return to me; and those lines- of Ernest Heart's in that magazine come to me, - "Hope's long-boat launched may come back never, Our phantom ships may sail forever; " and I think, I will keep my hope like a little boat safely fastened to the big ship of Reason by some strong cord, so that it will, never sink or go out of my sight. I wish the twilight would n't come yet ; I could sit here three houtrs longer, and gather shells and watch the sunset clouds. I feel like a child again as I put down my basket .where the tide can't reach it, and pick up some stones and throw them as far as I call over the deep sea. I try to accomplish the difficult feat of skipping them over the waters, but that is something I never could do. I can only produce something like the effect of the three separate circles in water, by throwing in three stones at once. I select the best-shaped stones page: 126-127[View Page 126-127] 3.2G TOGETHER. I can, - those most round and flat, - and try over and over again, till my arm aches. I find a beautiful little shell; I put it to my ear as I sing- - "' Take the bright shell From its home on-the lea, And wherever it goes It will sing of the sea; So take'the fond heart From its honme and its hearth, 'T will sing of the lov'd To the end of the earth." Suddenly I see a stone skip gracefully over the water. I look up,- Estelle has come. o She has some stones in one--hand, and a letter in the other. "I lrave b(elle trying ever so long to find you, Miisis Grenville," said slie. "I al osst gave opS till I see Bentdye lie tl"l me he saw you coming downl the cliff. He was up there picking bIlack- berries." I tear open the envelope - I always do that. Arthur Glenstein laulghs at me tfor doing it. Gentlemen, I believe, care- fully cut them open with their penknives, so scientifically, you ould n't imagtine, to look at it, that the repose of the fbur corners was at all broken; and then I believe they always keep the letter ever afterwards- in its envelope, like a glove in a box. It is all very nice, but I tear off the envelope: I want to know what's in- side;--'t is the nut I want, not the shell. The letter is,.from Harry. i I read it aloud. MY DEA R Miss GRENVILLE, -I am very lonely in the city, with you and Mr. Heart both away. I have to give up my Algebra and Euclid, and I can't talk French or German, and there 's no one to listen patiently when I tell my foolish stories. You have spoiled me for anybody else. The whole of New York, and Brooklyn too, seems stupid enough when you are gone; but I have found out something, Miss Louise, you would like to know. That gentleman w(h picked you up and brought you b home the day of our unfortunate ride, when I was senseless for hours and you were so badly hurt that Dr. Boynton feared at one time you would never be well arain, -that, gentleman who seized you, right from under the horse's feet, just as he was about to turn around and crush yfou,--was Mr. ErInest Heart. The horse had thrown you out, and would certainly have run over you, if Mr. Heart, at the risk of his own life, had n't saved you. And that calladium we think so much of is not the one you and I bought TOGETHER. 127 at all: that was broken all to pieces and the pot destroyed. Mr. Heart went that day to Mr. Burgess's and got another one, as near like it as possible, and a hanging-basket too. He had the calladium put on your table, just where, you could see it, when you should be well enough to open your eyes again; and I guess I know how he got the money. He did a little copying for Mr. Melit, for which he paid him two dollars. Besides, Mr. Heart came every morning to see how you were. fMr. Gala said he risked his life to save yours; and I don't see how he had pres- ence of mind to rush in, just as the horse was wheeling round, and seize you. I always did think he was n't like other men. Besides, Miss Louise, did you know that in saving your life he saved mine too; but that is n't of much matter, as I am only a poor boy. All I remember now. I was lying on a sofa in a room back of a drug-store, and people all around me talking. One man said, "I don't think the boy will ever come to again." But I hope you won't be afraid to ride with me another time. -I could drive you safely all over the world, if it had n't been for that horrid locomotive. It was enough to frighten any horse and set himn going so that he never would stop. I was in a horse-car the other day, and one of those horrid things came steaming along up-street, and the horses were so frightened they turned 'way around, and they shook so with fright that half a dozen men had to hold them; and if the car had been a carriage, it would have been upset with all the passengers. I met Mr. Arthur Glenstein yesterday. His face looked so long, I am afraid he 'll never look like himself till -you come back. I can't think of anything more. Excuse all my mistakes: I never wrote a letter to a young lady before. From your friend, HARRY ASTER. I don't pick up any more shells. I sit there on that beautiful beach, with sunset glory shining in my. face, but a sunrise glory shining in my heart.: there dawns a new, strange glow on all the hills of the past. Ernest Heart has- saved my life. I tried to do him good; but 1"Cosmos," and coal, Evangeline, all fade away like childish visions befobre the great solemn fact: - my life - all the golden hoped-for future, all the calm present- I owe to him; but for him 1 would now be lying in quiet Greenwood, guarded by mute marble and shadowy trees. He sent 'those flowers, he bought that calladium, he laid me tenderly on that bed, and he picked up those scraps of paper, P page: 128-129[View Page 128-129] 128 TOGETHER. with "Laurence Greenleaf" written so plainly on them;- but for him, I say, as I look back at the dying sunset, "Thee the all- beholding sun"I should see no more. I walk home in *a kind of dream, not seeing the overhanging trees, or the fair wild flowers holding up their heads, as I pas4 along. I only think of this: he has saved my life. I'go home and up to my room. I want to read over those delicious words of Mrs. Browning's again; but there's nothing on the table, - the book is gone. I look under the table, in the closet, on the bed, behind the bed, on the mantelpiece, but it is n't there. I go down-stairs, ask Mrs. Dolis if she has seen anything of a brown paper-covered book that was in my room. She says nothing, but calls Estelle. "Estelle!" "Ma'am!" -and with three bounds the girl comes down-stairs. "Where did you get that Abbott's History you sent home to Mrs. Linnard this noon?" "I found it in Miss Grenville's room. / I did n't look inside, but it had the same kind of cover, and I supposed it was the History. Mrs. Linnard wanted to borrow it for Mr. Heart a little while. She has n't a book in the house but ' Pilgrim's Progress,' and he wanted something. She said he had the headache to-day." ,It was my Browning's Poenis. It had gone to Ernest Heart! There was the leaf turned down at those lines about the kiss! there were the pencil-marks, there the withered heliotrope, and on the margin of the page some words of my own, written with a lead-pencil. This book was one I always kept for my own read- ing. I would as soon have thought of lending my head to Ernest Heart as thlat volume of poems. I did n't say a word, but turned to go up-stairs. Mrs. Dolis called me back, and handing me a handkerchief, said, "You left your handkerchief at Mrs. Linnard's last night. Mr. Heart handed it to her this morning, and said it was yours. He knew by the name on the corner." I took it, biting my lips with vexation as I thought, he has had ample time and opportunity- to examine and compare those unfortunate Gs. But he -must think I tell a lie, to profess such ignorance of that member of the Greenleaf family, when he found the name written so legibly on three pieces of paper, falling from my port- folio; and he is altogether too bright not to see the G of the Green- loaf is -just like the G of my name on the handkerchief. I did change the rest of the word, so as not to resemble my usual TOGETHER. 129 hand, but I never thought about the G; so I made that as I always do, end that is the way nobody else makes it. I verily believe, if I had committed some great crime from which I was tryinog to escape arrest and punishment, I could easily be identified by my G. He knew I must have seen the name written, and may have suspected the invisible Laurence was some uncle or cousin of mine, and so very naturally asked of me some infor- mation about the mysterious Greenleaf. I wish, without lying, I could mystify him a little farther; I am entangled in a strange web of circumstances. By what strange fatality was my life saved by Ernest Heart, and his eye doomed to see the very private contents of my folio? I suppose he sent those little clusters of heliotrope, mignonette, balm, and camellias it is just like him. How stupid I have been! Hiere I had made such a fine programme of future benefits, secretly bestowed on Ernest Heart: he should have comfort and cash until able to get them for himself, without knowing the source; 1he should be- come fahnous, without battling with Poverty's sharpest tribulation. But here all my little favors seem nothing; his obligation to me is as nothing. All at once, while secretly congratulatintg myself on the power of doing himn a little good, a few kindnesses,-all at once he appears, and the scales are turned: lam to owe him for an immense fhvor, an endless good,-my saved life. His hand in one moment has enriched me more than the gift of all my little fortune, a world of Evangelines, or libraries of "Cos- mos," or mines of coal, could enrich him; and I, proud as I am, must be gratefiul to him every time I see him, or read his name, or think of him! And now, am I doomed to have every secret of my heart, as well as plan of my head, laid open to his clear eye? Will he think I so madly lingered on the memory of that kiss as to allow that book, so marked, to be lent to him for his reading, and thus show utter lack of womanly delicacy? I only marked the passage because the kiss in the door reminded me of the lines; but he may possibly think I attach some dear and foolish im- portance to it. Oh dear! I wish people would let my things alone. I would rather, have lent every book in my library, every letter in my folio, all my worldly goods, than that one book. I lock the door, throw myself on 'the bed, and cry all the rest of the afternoon. I don't go down to tea; I say my head aches. It is true, it does ache, but not true, as Mrs. Dolis says, that the walk to the 9 page: 130-131[View Page 130-131] 130 TOGETHER. beach was too much for me,--city-girls can't bear much. I never felt better or brighter in my life than when I came back from that walk. I blathe my swollen eyes and go down-stairs about dark, resolved after this to keep everything locked up, and to take the key of my door in my pocket whenever I go out. I go back and look ;-of course there is no key in the door; so I say I 'll never mark a book again. At last a very faint hope comforts me a little, - that, if Ernest Heart should open to the marked passage, as it is so beautiful in itself, he may possibly think it was marked long ago, and so had no connection with last evening's acquaintance with him, or with that inevitable kiss. I hope I was n't such a fool as to put the date of that evening on the margin near the lines, --it would be just like me. But one thing he sha'n't think, -that I allowed that book to go to him, - that I knew of it.. I 'll rack my brains, and go without food and sleep, till I contrive some way of having him find that out. It is evening again,- dark, rainy, gloomy, in unison with my dark mood. All at once it rains furiously. A wagon drives up to the door; three gentlemen get out. The first and spokesman of the- three walks in unceremoniously, and says, -' Well, Aunt Sally, we 've come here to sit a while till the shower is over; we were going up sutherd, and we'll wait a while, if Tom can put the team under the shed." The man behind the speaker was Enoch Linnard, and behind him was Ernest Heart, and a boy about thirteen brought up the rear. "Come in, come in," said Mrs. Dolis. There are two gentlemen boarding with us, at Mrs. Dolis's. They have been looking over the little book-rack in search of readable matter, when nothing appears but a Book of Martyrs, "Pilgrim's Progress," and a half of an old dictionary. "I wish I had Mrs. Browning's Poems fobr you," I say, in quite a loud tone ; "but some one must have taken them out of my room by mistake. I can't find them anywhere." I say this in a clear, distinct voice, so that everybody hears it; but I say it so -that one person in the room may be sure that I have not sent off or lent the volume..-- Presently one gentleman says, ' Why, here is one little copy of French's standard drama, 'The Merchant of Venice'; suppose we read it. I have n't looked into Shakspeare forrfive years. This I 've never read; I only saw Forrest act in it once. He was Shylock, and I have hated Shylock ever since." To me, as the only young lady in the group, was assigned the TOGETHER. 131 part of Portia; to Ernest Heart, Bassanio. Perhaps if there 's anything I can do well, it is to read well. I can throw myself into a part, and for a time forget myself in the character I am personating. Then I had read the play so often, that I knew almost all of Portia's language, word by word. When I came to my part, I read it thus:- If you do love me, you will find me out, - You who, to-day I learned, a few short Weeks ago, to'save my worthless life, did Risk your own, - you whom the world Doth need for charm and cheer, In thoughts and words most precious. Yoe talk with Art and bathe in Beauty's fount Till face to face you kneel at Inspiration's mount." I went on, -finished the part. No one seemed to notice this little interpolation of mine. There was nobody but Ernest Heart familiar with the play. If they heard these lines they would think perliaps this was a new and slightly altered edition from the, big bown Shakspeare they had always seen at home in the old book-case. When Ernest Heart came to his part, he read: - "Laurence has long bereft me of all words; \ I owe him cheer and food and health and glowing flame, - ; All that hath made most dear my worthless name. In winter's gloom and snow that glad Evangel came,- And ' Cosmos ' too, with stores of learning vast, Which my starved soul did, oh, so eager grasp." Just then the door burst open, and Mr. Enoch Linnard rushed in again, horsewhip in hand. "Come," said he, " we must be off. We 'vezgot a good mile to ride yet. It's slackened up a little now, but it may rain again: it most allays does when there's such a stiff northleaster blowing." Ernest Heart came up to me, laid my Browning's Poems on the table, saying, I knew Mrs. Dolis must have made some mistake. I sent for Abbott's History. I'm sorry you have missed the book. I brought my Browning with me, so that I did n't have to borrow this." I said, hastily, I should n't like to have lost it, for a young lady-friend of mine has marked a good many passages in it. There were tears in his eyes, I could see. I could n't help it, there were tears in mine. He held out his hand and said ' Good night," hurriedly, and stopped a moment as if to say something more, when' Mr. Enoch put in his head again, saying, "Come, 'Mr. Heart; we're off iow." page: 132-133[View Page 132-133] 182 TOGETHER. As I heard the rough wheels going down the street that still night, how I wished it had rained hard an hour longer. I was comforted. How delicately he had tried to show me -that lie knew his having my Poems was a mistake; and that possibly he had n't read mine, having one of his own; how considerate, Low kind!- I took my Poems up-stairs, and read that passage over again. But, alas! how provoking! right there in one of the front pages was a paper, rearing its tell-tale head above the leaves, with the words written on it, "Laurence Greenleaf," and in a moment of abstraction I had also scribbled "Cosmos" all over it, and put it in carelessly as a mark for some poem I had been reading, intend- ing to take it out again. I sit and close my eyes, and try and think how I could have been such an idiot, until all at once it came to me how the other day I was sitting by the table, with the Poems open before me, and scribbling on a scrap of paper. I looked off the book and tried to repeat some of the lines, when Mrs; Dolis screamed out to me, "Come down quick, Miss Grenville ; come, get some hair- pins." There were no hair-pins to be bought in the whole of Pleasantville,---centre, suburbs, and environs. I am always losing them. Mrs. Dolis had heard me lament my very pressing need of them; so, as soon as -his pedlership came in the door, she screamed to-me. I hastily put the paper I had been scribbling on in the book, and ran down-stairs, thinking I would buy a barrel of hair-pins, and have enough to last for once. I 'm sure I don't know where the hair-pins go to. We were some time looking over the pedler's treasures. The-- combs were all too large, the darning-needles too fleshy, the tape too wide; his ribbon was all black, and yet he earnestly recom- mended it to me as being of the best width and quality, - as if I could put black ribbon bows on my collar or undersleeves, or bloomer, because it was of the right width and texture! As to elastic braid, he had n't a bit of it; so I must still fasten up my undersleeves with pins. - He had a good stock of every- thing that nobody wants, including countless red and yellow silk handkerchiefs, and suspenders innumerable. After himself, pack, and dog departed, we had dinner, and I forgot all about the paper left in the book of poems, - that un- fortunate paper, with"Laurence Greenleaf" on one side, and "Cosmos " written three or four times on the other. There was n't much risk of peering eyes in that farm-house, with all the TOGETHER. 133 soul's might, mind, and strength taken up in baking and brewing, cooking and churning; the book was certainly safe; but you never know when a thing is safe. I sit and shake my head, and say, Oh dear, I wish I had n't put that paper in that book; why did n't I know better! Oh dear, how provoked I am, and I never can get over being provoked at myself! What did possess me; why must I always be doing the very thing I don't mean to * page: 134-135[View Page 134-135] 134, TOGETHER. CHAPTER XVIII. SEVENTY-SIX AND SIXTY-ONE. As the last sound of the last wagon-wheel died away from that quietest of all village streets, I sat in my own room, with my Browninogon my lap, dearer than ever; my head was altogether too full of thought, and my heart full of feeling, to lie down on my pillow. I had n't had it my own way, after all, but I don't know as I was sorry. TlTere was a paper on the table. Mrs. Dolis had laid it there while I was out. I took it up. There was an article in it about the murder of those brave Massachusetts boys on their way to Washington. As I read it, I cried over it. How foolish, selfish, and wicked I had been to be so deeply grieved about- my little personal mortification, the trifling, dim, misty veil coming momentarily over my pride and peace, when this big cloud was gathering over my poor country! I feel for a monent as if I were nothing, as if I would gladly be a homeless, roofless, hopeless pauper, -give up everything but the blue sky -above, and the stars and Heaven, if I could only have once more a peaceful, happy, united country. Just then Mrs. Dolis knocked at the door.-- "There's a paper for you," she said. "John brought it from the village. It ought to have come in to-day's mail, but it did n't.' I took it: it was not a paper, but the June number of a new magazine, called "The Pacific." The wrapper was directed in Harry's boyish hand. I tore off the envelope. There were articles in it from Fanny Fancy, Alice Aspiration, Sylvanus Symphony, Edward Elegy, Emma Empyrean, Silas Shortfellow. and Peter Perpetual. Peter Perpetual is paid one hundred dollars a column for his articles. There 's one objection to the magazine: I never see any really superior poetry in it. It has always some little silly verses about Nancy sitting on the fence, or Lucy looking out of the window, or James worshipping his shadow, with not half as much power, truth, or pathos in it as this short epic of Dorothy Dole's calam- ity, - , TOGETHER. 135 "Dorothy Dole stepped on a coal, Which made her scream like murder, No wonder at all that she should squall So all the neighbors heard her." I look over the magazine and find a great deal of excellent prose. Harry has turned down a leaf--the three hundreth page, and marked the article, and written over it, with a pencil, "Ernest Heart." So I suppose Mr. Heart wrote the article. - It is headed, - r ' ' "SEVENTY-SIX AND SIXTY-ONE. "' How long before Fourth of July will be here?' asked a bright boy, one morning, as his eye flashed with expectant de- light. The boy's ancestors had come over in the Matyflower, and found at last a peaceful home under the shade of the dearest old elm-tree in New England. As I heard the tramp of departing feet, andthe roll of the stirring drum, my wailing heart could only echo, 'How long?' We had grown so sure of our inde- pendence, so happily secure in the strong arms of our dear old Union, we were almost forgetting her nursery-rhymes and cradle- songs. We were growing effeminate and ease-loving, till even patriotism was getting old-fashioned, in our metropolitan eves, and only appeared once a year, in a flash and a bang, a blaze and a crack, ringing out with morning bells and dying away with sunset chimes and evening pyrotechnics; when, like a deathless watchfire, it should have burned on the hearth-stone of every American heart forever. Fourth of July has been a glorious day for boys. Then the gunpowder of enthusiasm, always loaded in a boy's soul, could explode, without molest or reprimand; but, as we brushed away, the next morning, the fiagments of ex- ploded crackers and departed- torpedoes, we were glad that Fourth of July was over with, that there was but one Fourth of July in a year, while the boys wished 'there could be Fourth of July every day, Sundays and all; and, as for the soldiers, it seelned an idle waste of time, - all this uniforming and drilling and marching; this display of swords and guns and bayonets and can- nons, - the-e was nobody to defend, nobody to shoot; they might do to add to the attractions of gala-days, and the drilling and the marching would improve the round-shouldered, and the becoming uniform display the fine, manly figure and bearing ; but, for real use, in this 'free and happy country,' they seemed of as much good as the curled and flounced and draperied lay-figures in show- windows. Besides, they amused the boys. Boys always like to page: 136-137[View Page 136-137] 136 TOGETHER. see soldiers, and none but Bridget and the boys would think of going to the window to see them, unless the procession was a mile long. Aq for us, we were busy getting the latest fashions, hearing the last words spoken, and- seeing the last thing out, worrying and perplexing and absorbing our souls with varying costumes, bor- dering our garments, and adorning our bonnets with magenta, fusia, orsolfering, lavishing our most enthusiastic admiration and fondest idolatry upon Madames last ' opening,' Japanese princes, or Italian prima donnas. Patriotism was almost as old-fashioned, as much of a mummy, embalmed and buried, as temperance or total depravity. Fourth-of-July orations were wellnigh obsolete; they might do for some retired village, unblessed by literary lions and musical stars, or some country town, whose sole attractions were -the academy, meeting-house, the square, and a duck-pond; where a few old fogies and boys get together, and sing the ' Star- Spangled Banner,' and talk about patriotism to old women in spectacles or country girls in white dresses. "We have now been learning well that some things, old and familiar, may be as pricelessly dear as the meridian sun, the faithful moon, and the constant stars. No longer -are our patriotic songs sung only to decrepit age or boisterous youth, in village academies, where they try to get up an excitement on the Fourth. As for French ' openings' of bonnets or mantles, which so fascinate New-Yorkerls, we have had a grander ' opening' this spring than for years. It is an opening of long passe patriotism, coming out with sublime display -- till it is all the rage, with its red, white, and blue. Seedy and gray-and withiered no longer, it is out, blooming as a bride and fiesh as a rose, and we send word to our country friends, (who seem, some of them, to have got the news as soon as any of us), that the red, white, and blue are all the fashion, -the only colors wolrn, and all the bon ton are wearing them. We have had a grand opening of purse and heart and soul. Many a fine display of beautiful devotion, of lawful pride and tearful sacrifice may a stranger see, from our Broadway windows, when our military are out now. ' We love our old Union for Truth's sake, for Peace's sake, for Freedom's sake, for the past, the present, and the future, fol his- tory, for poetry, for philosophy, for fathers' graves, and brothers' loves, and children's -hopes. Here, in this fair land, would we live, here would we die, and here be buried; its people our people, and its God our God. If this land be rent by anarchy and divided by despotism, where shall wei like wandering doves, TOGETHER. 1-87 find rest for the'sole of our feet? where a peaceful shade, under life's hot heat and heavy burden? A quiet home here is dearer to us than a 'home in marble halls' in stranger lands. "In dark and lonely days gone by, have we sat tearlessly watching by the bedside of some lingering departing loved-one, waiting for the eyes to close, and the lips to be hushed forever, till, as we took our solitary place at the table, the food we tried to eat choked us; now, as we keenly feel the treacherous stab at the true heart of our mother-country, the food we eat seems to choke us, and each cheerful smile is shadowed by an answering sigh. This poisonous mushroom confederacy, sprung up in one night of terror by the side of our great family-tree, imperiously and insolently challenges our adoption; nay, we must dig up the noble old tree, whose roots clasp our heart-strings, whose sap is as dear as our life-blood, and plant and cherish the mushroom, and joirding ignominious hands, sing anthems to our beloved cotton, our pre- cious palmetto, our. glorious confederacy, our illustrious Davis, our sovereign and independent and infiillible Carolina;- it is selfishness supreme and sordid; not one patriotic throb beats in it all. It is nbot' our precious elm, our beloved alanthus and great New York, our most worshipful and wonderful selves, for whom we watch and fight and pray, but our whole country, -' The flag of our Union forever.' With eyes fixed on that. great God of Freedom, who sits high on the everlasting hills, we must prostrate this Baal, which a modern impious Nebuchadnezzar hath set up for our worshipping, and with eager hands seize some fiery escharotic, some glowing caustic, and burn out this poisonous treason choking our national throat. -"We have a fearful stock in this bank of freedom, which can never lose its value. We have sent from our sight into the post of danger all those we value most this side of heaven, whose heads we have always sheltered from the storm, as tenderly as the kind Father above shields the shorn lamb and the bruised reed, and it may be by the next Fourth of July our songs may be suna near the green graves of our sons and brothers, who but yesterday marched from our sight, and whose 'parting heart-beat may be the 'beginning of, the funereal march,' to their honored graves. The voice of our brother's blood even now crieth unto us from the ground, and for evermore may the echo of those first stones, hurled at loyal martyr-heads, be the stern reveille, calling us to wake and watch, that the break of Freedom's day may burst over the highest hills of our longing, wounded hopes. page: 138-139[View Page 138-139] 1 38 TOGETHER. "Once more, way up in the tower of our great American humanity, lets the annual chime ,of myriad bells ring out again, louder and deeper, richer and sweeter, holier and purer, mightier and manlier,- "' Sweet Freedom's Song.' "ERNEST HEART." I cry myself to sleep that night, and I awake about four o'clock in the morning, and can't get asleep again. As daylight comes, I am up and dressed. I stand a moment by the window. I hear the stage-horn. Soon I hear the stage coming down the street: it is going by - there's it head at the window - the hat is off- the head bows the handkerchief is waved-- and the stage and Ernest Heart, its only inside passenger, are out of sight. It is a rumbling, rickety old stage, with long, wiry, unsightly horses, and a most unproetical driver; but only a stage, rickety and rumbling, may beir away firom the stage -of our lives the star-actor of our thoughts. Something must have called him suddenly away.- I know it was his intention to remain9 two or three weeks longer. I heard Mrs. Linnard say so onl Tuesday. I turn around suddenly, and give the little rickety three-legged old toilet-table between the windows a shake, and iy Browniing falls on the floor. It opens as it falls, and there dri)ps on the carpet a little note. I pick it up. It is addressed to Miss Louise Grenville. I open tile envelope; it contains another and smaller envelope, unsealed and directed to "LAU RENCE GREENLEAF, Occultville, Hidden County." And there's nothing in it but these verses;- "You 've woven roses round my way, And gladdened all my being; How much I thank you, none can say, Save only the All-seeing. "' May He who gave this lovely gift, His love of lovely doings, Be with you wheresoe'er you go, In every hope's pursuings." I never will tell how many times I read these words over, or how many tears fell upon, them. In my heart's holiest, where the fire never goes out - where burns the Shechinah - no eye can. penetrate, no step enter. I He was n't like other men; he could n't do like other men; it was his own delicate, thoughtful way. TOGETHER. 139 I did n't know then that Ernest Heart was n't sure yet of Laurence Greenleaf's residence or identity. How much lie con- jectured, guessed, or itmagined, I know not, - he dared not ad- dress the wron ,person. -but as he began to be sure of one thing, that I knew who Laurence Greenleaf really was, and was in some way connected with his plots and plans of benevolence, he took this way of showing me his gratitude to the said Laurence, - thinking probably that through me, his unknown benefactor might receive his heartfelt expression of thanks. My remlarks had puzzled him. If I had promised to keep a third person's secret, I might blush and be embarrassed at being ques- tiolned about it, -just as I would blush and be embarrassed in trying to keep the secret if it were my own, As Ernest Heart thought over the subject by. star-light and diream-ligilt, he tficied that I, a young maiden, might possibly have vconceived the pleasant plot; but his sober, mornilg, daylight opinion was, that Laurence Greenleaf was some unknown mascu- line individual; and so he left Pleasantville, leaving me to give to the mysterious Laurence his poetic thanks. As for me, I was half sure that he suspected me; it seemed 4 to me that Tabby's head, at least, was fairly out of Fate's reticule. , page: 140-141[View Page 140-141] O- TOGETER. CHAPTER XTX. A LEAF FRO&M SORROW'S GREENWOOD. I STAYED in the country till I saw the first tinge of the autumn- leaves. I am back to the city again. Most of the city-dwellers have returned. Harry came to see me last night. He says Ernest Heart has not returned yet, that he was sent for on some urgent business the night before he left Pleasantville. Mrs. Cater expects him very soon, and she keeps the room just as he left it. Mildred is well. She has three more pulpils. You would n't think, to see her move about now, that shel ever had been lame at all. Jane comes in one morning, and she is so lono sweeping up the hearth, rubbing the windows, and dusting off the mantel, I begin to think she has sonmething to say. By and by she stops and stands still, with a duster in one hand, and a pail of suds in the other, and says, "Miss Louise," and then stops. "Well, what is it, Jane? Have you anything to tell me?" "Margaret says there's a stranger lady sick in Ailanthus Street, where her sister Kate lives; very sick ; and there's nobody to do anything for her but Kate. She is quite young, too, and Kate is afraid she is going to die, and die without a priest or anybody'." "Well, Jane, tell me where she is, and I will go and see her." "It is a three-story white brick house," said Jane, "No. 1238 Ailanthus Street. The lady's only been there two weeks, and the first three days after she came she was out nearly all day long somewhere, and she came home the third day, --it was last Tuesday,--nearly tired out, and she took sick, and she's been sick ever since. Kate says she- thinks she must have some trouble on her mind, for she sleeps so little and has no appetite. Kate says she- went to the Five Points, and in those shanties up- town, and to all the police-stations, and she sent some kind of advertisements to the papers; she was busy about something all the time until she was sick." I go around to Mr. Humphrey's and get a bouquet of migno- TOGETHER. 141 nette, heliotrope, tuberose, and violet, and a little cluster of those dear little blue violets. I take that beautiful group of Autumn Leaves, in its elegant frame, which I bought at Goupil's yester- day, and in a little basket I put some wine-jelly and some clus- ters of white grapes. I take the flowers, as the most graceful letter of introduction I can carry to the unknown invalid. If she is young and sensitive and suffering, these heliotropes and violets are as old friends of hers ash they are of mine, -our mutual acquaintances. Kate meets me at the door; she leaves me in the parlor a few moments'; then takes me up into the sick lady's room. I went up to her bedside, and taking her pale hand, said, "I have brought you some flowers; you are a stranger here; they are old friends of yours." She took them in her hand and smiled,- all but the little bunch of blue violets, which she wished me to lay on the table, the otrhr side of the room. I hang the picture of Autumn Leaves up where she can see them without turning her head, as she lies there on the bed. Hers was one of those rare faces sickness does not fade or wither, -it only etherealizes, spiritualizes, beautifies. She talked very slowly, and almost every sentence ended with a long despairing sigh, a half sob. She said her name was Blanche Page; that only three months ago her husband left a flourishing business, inspired by irresistible patriotism, enlisted as a private in the army, and was in the battle of Bull Run. She had no letter for days. She took up a morning paper and read, - "' Private Arthur Page, shot through the heart, - dead.' "He was buried by the enemy, with a great many other unrecognized, uneoffined dead, and all I heard of him was his remark to one of the company, a particular friend of his, on the eve of the battle: -'I think we shall have a terrible battle, and I may be killed. If you can, take this little miniature and send it to my dear wife; but don't take it off until I am gone. Tell her' I am willing to die for my poor country.' "I was ill for some days after this. And then, hearing that one member of the company to which Arthur belonged was in Phila- delphia, I went there with my little Blanche, then only two years old, to try to find out something more about my poor husband's fate. I took Blanche with me everywhere; but one day I found I could see the gentleman I was so anxious to meet, by going to a certain locality where he was lying ill. In the same house were two children very sick with scarlet fever. I was afraid to page: 142-143[View Page 142-143] "2 rOGETHER. take little Blanche, and left her about an hour with a new nurse I had got to take care of her, giving very strict directions to watch the child closely. When I came back, the child was gone. The - nurse said, she went down-stairs a moment to get her some warter, and when she came back the child had been taken out of the cra- dle; but probably she had left Blanche asleep in the cradle, and gone down-stairs half an hour to talk with Bridget in the kitchen. Blanche had a very pretty chain on her neck, little bracelets on her arms, and was dressed richly. I thought at first the child ight have been stolen for her elegant clothes, the thief thinking large reward would be offered for her restoration. Such things hare happened in- New York; and the thief comes bac k in a few days with the child, pretending to have found it, and claiming the reward, which its too happy parents are glad to give, without ask- ing any questions. I offered large rewards, and had the police on the alert. There was a band of thieves about Philadelphia at that time, who had committed burglary, robbery, and many crimes, and Blanche was not the first missing child. The police had information, giving them suspicion that the band of robbers had left for New York. And after every possible search and investigation in Philadelphia, I was haunted day and night by the thought that Blanche might be in New York. The police would inform me of some newly found lost child; I would go and look in the child's face, but it would not be Blanche. Only a week before she was lost she was going up-stairs, trying to carry with her her little hoop and stick; she, fell down a few steps and cut the right corner of her upper lip, and it left and always will leave a little scar, which yot would not notice unless you ex- amined the mouth closely. While walking the streets with me in Philadelphia, she would always pull at my dress and tease me for some of those videts, --as she called those bunches of blue violets the flower-women had for sale, on the walks in front of the stores. These blue violets she would carry home in her own little dimpled hands, and put them in her little cup. She looked for them every time she went out." Poor Mrs. Page! now she could n't look without heartache upon those flowers. I gave her the jelly and the grapes. Those blue eyes looked eloquent thanks, but, I knew, no jelly and no grapes of mine, no comfort of mine, could comfort her. She said, '"If there were only a little grave I could visit; if I had only laid her tenderly to rest in Greenwood; if I could plant those blue violets over the spot; if I knew, -if I knew she was safe TOGETHER. 143 with the angels, until I could go and meet her there; but I know, yes, I am sure, she suffers somewhere. She may be roughly, cruelly, harshy handled by pauper, beggar hands ;-if I could only look upon her face once more! There is her little locket in the drawer; go and look upon it. I cannot look upon it; I can never see it more." And the unhappy, bereaved mother sobbed and wept, overcome with her great, hopeless grief. 6"Once every night, about two o'clock," she said, "little Blauche would wake up, and putting her arms around my neck, say, Love me, mamma; love me, mamma.' "I would put my arms around her neck; she would lie awake, clinging to me and folding her arms around my neck, and fall asleep; and, till I sleep my last sleep, I always shall -wake at that same hour of night and listen for the sweet voice, -4 Love me, mamma; love me, mamma. " I opened my little pocket-Bible, and read to her the sweetest words I could find; but what words could bind up this .bruised reed? I saw the Plymouth Collection of Hymns on the bureau. I opened it and read some of the most soothing hymns. At last I persuaded her to eat, little by little, some of the jelly and the grapes. I put the flowers on the table where she could see them, bathed her forehead, and then read to her until at last she fell asleep, - the first sleep she had had for days. I sat by the bedside and watched her; how I wished I could be an angel only a little while, if I milght roll away the great stone of grief from that aching heart. She turned uneasily in her sleep, and whispered something; it was this, -"Private Arthur Page, shot through the heart." She slept a half hour quietly, and then spoke again, - "Blanche, Blanche, come, come! Here are some videts, put them in tihe little cup;" and a smile came a moment on her lips, -and a moment more the smile was gone. In a little while she awoke suddenly, saying, "Where's Blanche? I thought I was talking with her." Oh! oh! I thought, if I could only prolong that sleep; it is her only respite from agony! While she was asleep, I had looked at that little miniature; the round laughing face was so like one of the faces in that beautiful engraving called Nature, a copy from Laurence's wonderful pic- ture, and which I always thought an ideal of the artist's until a clergyman, recently in England, told me, while there he learned that the picture was a portrait of Sir Somebody's two cllil- dren,-I have forgotten the baronet's name. I stayed alnost page: 144-145[View Page 144-145] "4 TOGETHER. all day with Mrs. Page. I went to see her every day for a week. I could see that .she was growing weaker, that hers was a malady neithler time nor physician could cure. Grief's arrow was quiver- ing in her heart! Early one morning, I am sitting in my room with torn gloves, ripped stockings, unanswered letters, and tempting books before me,-thinking which I would take up first; beside, my head aches. Since that accident, sometimes I do have the headache a little, - just enough to make me want to sit still and not stir out for that day. But all at once I feel that I must go out; something calls me. The dust is flying, the wind is blowing, it is chilly and cloudy, - no very delightful morning for a promenade; but yet I must go, something tells me I must go. Gloves, stockings, letters, books, arte hastily thrown aside, and I dress for a walk. Mrs. Harwed meets me in the hall and says, "Why, Miss Louise, are you going out this unpleasant morning?" "Yes," I say. ,' Would you be willing to go by the shanties?" ( Yes," I reply, "I will. I am going to see my little bread-girl." Well," said Mrs. Harwed, " if you 'll be so kind as to see*if you can find Mary Rogers, the girlI want to get for Susan. She lives in a small house with one window in front, and only one room on the lower floor; it is near a little store where they sell old rum and new milk,' -you 'll see the sign." So I have one errand out, I say, to find Mary Rogers. I go all through that miserable locality. I have on my arm a little basket of fresh baker's gingerbread, which I always take with me when I go up that way. I meet those poor little ragged boys, eating the old burned crusts of cake and bread, floating on the top of their swill-pails. Poor ithings! it does me good to see them eat the clean, fresh gingerbread; they look as if they had a good big slice of comfort for/once. It seems, as I go into the houses, that every third woman is named Rogers; but I don't see the Mary Rogers I want. I pass by a miserable-looking house, and hear a child moaning and then bitterly crying, and then it sounds as if the child's cries were being stifled. I go in and up a flight of rickety stairs, and knock at the door of the front-room on the second floor. No one answers. I knock again, a little louder; there's some stirring about in the room, and at last the door opens, just a little, and a woman stands before it. "Does Mary Rogers live here?"I ask. "No, ma'am." TOGETHER. 145 "I 'll walk in," I say, pushing myself through the partly closed door, "and perhaps you can tell me something about her." I still hear the stifled cries of that fittle child. "Is the child sick?"I ask. "No, ma'am; she 's not sick, but her eyes are very bad." "What 's the matter with her eyes?"I say. "Oh, they are sore, very sore." "Let me see her," I say; " perhaps I can give you something to help her; " and I keep hearing -almost every moment those tor- turing, agonizing cries. If the child were being' repeatedly stung or stabbed, they could not have been more heart-rending. "Oh, no, ma'am, you can't see her. The doctor says we must keep the room dark and quiet; nobody must see her." Suspecting something unusual, as the woman stood before the door leading into the room, evidently intending me not to enter, I heard an angry voice say, "Hush, brat, or I 'll beat you." I turned suddenly, bade the woman good-morning, ht' if I were going to ' leave the house, walked out into the hall, and opened the door in the hall leading into the next room. ( There was a little, bare-footed, half-clad, iagged child, about two years and a half old, sitting in a big chair, with her hands tied and her eyes bandaged, and close by her side, with a small switch in hler hand, was one of the ugliest-looking'women I ever beheld. She had carroty hair; sharp, cruel eyes; coarse, hideous face; slouching and slovenly dress. She seemed both angry and fright- ened at seeing me. "What's the matter of the child?"I said. "Oh, her eyes are bad, and the doctor has bandaged them." Just then a man from below the stairs screamed out, in an im- patient, gruff, surly voice, -"Molly, come down! bring me the jug, quick!" The woman seized the jug from the table, as if accustomed to obey the harsh voice. "I will sit with the child till you come back," I said. She looked a little uneasy and suspicious, but hurried down- stairs. I tore off the bandage. Over each eye was the half of a Madeira nut-shell, and beneath it a large live cockroach; and over this was fastened tight a second bandage! This process of agonizing friction on the ball of the eye would at last cause a film to grow, and produce permanent blind- ness, making the child a imore pitiable and available object for begging purposes. I saw the diabolical plan. The cockroaches went out of the window, the nut-shells followed. I replaced that 10 page: 146-147[View Page 146-147] "6 TOGETHER. bandage just as the woman ascended the stairs. She had been delayed by the man, to take his ju and get it filled with rum at the grocery. "This is not your child," I said. "I see you have another, a little younger than she, sitting in the corner." "No; I adopted her. She was my sister's child, and my sister died last June." "I will give you ten dollars for her," I said; and I took from my purse a ten-dollargold-piece. "' I will step out a moment, and you can decide." I went out and saw a policeman just at the corner. - I told him the story, and went up-stairs again, leaving him standing outside by the door. The woman had taken off the bandage- she evidently did n't suspect me of any part in the sud- den disappearance of the cockroaches; she might have thought in some Way they had made their own escape. The gold ten- dollar piece was a great temptation: she gave me the child, and I went down the stairs. I stood in the hall, took off my sontagy and wrapped it around the child's head, as a kind of impromptu hood, put my fur around her neck, and wrapping one end of my shawl about her, took her in my arms, tucking her little bare feet in my shawl and throwing my blue veil over her face. I hurried across two or three blocks, and took a car which brought me within a few minutes' walk of home. I was tired when I reached the door, but I did not put down the little one until I was once more in my own room. I sat her on the bed, cut a little paper tattern of the sole of the child's foot, and sent Jane around to Mr. Scuteus' for a pair of child's shoes; and in a little while, having borrowed a pair of stockings which Nelly Harwed had outgrown, the bare feet were comfortably shod, and the child washed, and dressed for that day in Nelly Harwed's last year's blue mering, which I insisted on buying of Mrs. Harwed, who gave me some of Nelly's cast-off under-clothing; and the child's delicate limbs were soon comfortably clothed, the fair, wavy hair brushed,: the red, swollen eyes bathed. Jane made her a gener- ous slice of milk-toast, and boiled her an egg. Poor child! as she sat in-my lap, she ate as eagerly and hungrily as if never in all her life she had tasted good bread or milk or egg before. About half an hour after, I rocked her to sleep in my arms, singing,- "Rock-a-by baby upon the tree-top, When the wind blows the cradle will rock; When the bough breaks the cradle will fall, Down comes rock-a-by baby and all." I TOGETHER. 147 I tucked her snugly in one side of my bed. 'How prettily she looked with the little brown curls lying on the pillows. There 's nothing on earth more anrgelic thlan a sleeping child. There was no plump, rosy cheek, but the features were so symmetrical and perfect, suffering and abuse could not rob the ethereal little face of' its delicate beauty. The lashes fringing the closed lids of' those two little blue martyrs were heavy and long, casting their soft shadow on the transparent cheek. I folded some soft linen in smooth folds, putting a little cord- throulgh the upper fold, and wetting it in warm water, with a few drops of arnica in it, laid it gently over the closed eyes, and fastened the cord round the little head so that the weight of the compress should not rest on the eye itself, while the moisture reduced or allayed the inflammation, which was not at present deep-seated, as the fearful torture had probably been first applied that morning. She slept an hour; as she awoke, I removed the compress, took her in my arms. As she nestled there, like a timid, wounded bird in a soft, warm nest, I sung to her some nursery-rhymes, telling her the always-amus- ing, ever-welcome story to childhood's ears, "This little pig went to market." She crowed so each time as I came to the- "Que, que que, I can't find my way home," that I repeated it over and over, adding more emphasis and expression each time to the fifth and final pig's soliloquy, until the little maiden was quite at ease and happy. Jane came in with some smooth blocks, gathered from her barrel of shavings, and the child sat on the floor near the grate, piling them up, and laughing to see them tumble down again.- As I watch her, a sudden thought comes to my mind. I call over some child-names, -all the familiar and common ones I can think of; she does n't notice them. At last I say slowly, looking into the child's deep blue eyes," Blanche Page, Blanche Page." She stops piling up the blocks, looks up at me wonderingly, and slowly repeats the words in her sweet baby voice, -"Bans Pade, Bans Pade." She evidently knows tie name. I take her up in my lap, look ,at her mouth; just in the right corner of the upper lip, I see a faint scar. I can only see it as I come close to her. I borrow Nelly's hood and cloak, put on my sack, furs, and hood, and -I-hurry out, get into a car and ride to Ailanthus Street. I walk thr-ee blocks up the street, till I come to the house. I walk softly up-stairs ; I pause at the door, for I hear a voice reading a prayer for thte visitation of the sick:-- ' page: 148-149[View Page 148-149] "38 TOGETHER. " The Almighty Lord, who is a most strong tower to all those who put their trust in Him, to whom all things in Heaven, in earth, and under the earth, do bow and obey, be now and ever- more thy defence; and make thee know and feel that the re is none other name written under Heaven given to man, in whom and through whom thou mayst receive health and salvation but only the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen." "Unto God's gracious mercy and protection we commit thee; the Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord make His face to shine upon thee; the Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace, both now and evermore. Amen." I know the voice. I never heard the prayer read with such pitying, solemn pathos. Yes, I know the soothing, impassioned voice; and as I open the door, I see Ernest Heart by the bed- side, with the prayer-book in his hand. I open the door gently. The child keeps timidly by my side until I approach the bed; she looks up at the pale face on the pillow/cries," Mamma! mamma!" climbs up onl the bed by her mother, lies down by her side, and putting her little arms around that mother's neck, she says, "Love me, mamma! love me, mamma " The mother was dying. She could n't raise her head, but she put her arms around that little neck and folded the child to her heart, in one long, loving, last embrace. She looked at the blue eyes, and then at me, putting her hand on the child's forehead. I knew what the look and-motion meant. I said, "Baptize her, Blanche Page?"She pressed my hand, for she could not speak. I sent for Dr. C ; he came immediately. - I went close to her bedside, I leaned forward, took her hand, and said, "I will tenderly love and carp for her- so long as she shall live." 'She looked up at Ernest Heart; He came, took her hand, and said, "So far as it is in my power, I will see that she is happy; you can trust her, without fear, with perfect confidence, in Miss Grenville's hands." Mrs. Page lay there, still looking into that little face, until Dr. (I came. Without releasing the child from the mother's last embrace, --her little face nestling close beside that mother's pale cheek, - he laid his hand on the child's pale brow. The child said again, clinging close to her dying mother, "Love me, mamma! love me, mamma "The minister said, - Blanch Page, I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy 'Ghost. Amen." As over the child's brow came the baptism of TOGETHER, 149 life,- her name registered among earth's little children, - over Blanche Page, the mother's face, came the baptism of death, the kiss of the immortals; her name written among the angels, registered among the Church of the innumerable first-born. How liard it was, and it seemed so sad and cruel, to tear away that child from her long-lost, new-found mother, so soon to be buried forever firom her earthly sight. In Sorrow's great Greenwood, Destiny has reared another mute, moveless marble. Through Grief's gloomy, drooping shadow, we read the inscription:-- "Private Arthur Page, shot through the heart, - dead. "Blanche Page, stricken in the battle of life, -pierced through the heart by Griefs keen arrow. i' Sharper than stab of sword, surer than flight of bullet, is Grietfs unfailing shaft." I ride through Greenwood again with Blanche Page. I pass by that plain slab, where the myrtle is growing, fresh roses are in bloom ; and there, standing and leaning over close where the word "Mother" is carved, is Ernest Heart, and there are fresh violets lying on that grave. Good, noble, constant man! I can't help feeling sympathy and admiration for such a true soul. 'Tis Tuesday. Blanche Page was buried on Saturday. I have been out. I saw Ernest Heart walking with a young lady, beautiful, graceful, and elegantly dressed. She is about my own age. She does n't look at anything or anybody. She seems absorbed in his conversation. I know by his look, voice, man- ner, that she is no cousin, no sister. He has neither cousin- nor sister. His manner is not brotherly nor cousinly. She has his arm. I hear him call her Nethelyn ; yes, that is her name, her first name. He walks slowly, selects the shadiest part of the walk. How tenderly lie seems to guide her;- yes, guide is the only word I can think of. I wonder where they are going. I hear him say, "Mr. Dodge lives here." He is telling her about the houses; so I suppose she is a stranger. But I won't wal. behind them any longer. I wonder who she is - yes, I wonder. page: 150-151[View Page 150-151] 150 TOGETHER. CHAPTER XX. "BANS PADE." THEY are marching along, they are marching along, with noble-looking General Arlington at their head. Nothing can keep Annie's great-souled, large-hearted father from answering the roll-call of duty. As they pass on, there are hearty cheers and loud huzzas. Best-beloved sons, kindest brothers, truest lovers, and fondest husbands are marching out of sight of weep- ing, worshipping friends. The morning is delightful, the band is playing "Dixie," hand- kerchiefs. wave, hands are kissed, tears kept back. They are out of sight - gone! About -their honored heads are woven dreams of deathless fame, and endless laurels; but through all these wreaths of bay and halos of glory, I see them' marching still, many of them, into the long, dark halls of Eternity, and joining the bands of the fnseen immortals. It may be adieu to all those noble hearts, but I cannot say au revoir; for throurgh all the pomp and ceremony, the music and the march, gleams the in- evitable fact, stern and solemn: they go to kill or be4illed; and their mission is tears, if not to my eyes, to other bereaved women's eyes. Annie'Milleen travelled night and day with her little Blanche, to get home in time to see her father once more. She came the night before he left, and that morning they were all at the window as he went by. Bridget left her dusting, and Margaret her dishes, to stand at the door and see them pass; and by their side stood Mara, little Blanche's nurse, forgetting everything but the music and the marching and the waving banners. Little Blanche Milleen, unnoticedfor once in her little life, crept down from her chair, and went out into the hall, to "Dis danpa once more." She bad hardly been out of his arms since she came. Bridget, in her hurry and excitement, had- left her dustinog-brush and pan on the top of the high stone steps, and the child tripped and fell all the way down. TOGETHER. 151 She lay at the bottom, stunned, stiff, and still. The notes of ;' Dixie " had hardly died away from their ears. Blanche was dead! As Annie heard the fall and looked at that little bruised head, 3R' she shrieked out, "I left her alone; I never left her unwatched before! I have killed my child!" and she swooned away. Two days have passed. I am going down-street to get some leggings for my little Blanche. I see Nelson Milleen crossing theil street. He meets me, grasps my hand, says nothing. At last asks me to come and see Annie. She has lain in that un- conscious state two days. She may die, unless she is aroused from this death-like stupor! If she could only shed tears-! I go around to the Arlington's, where never before Grief had left his lightest touch, his daintiest tread. I enter the parlor, where statuary, painting, rosewood, marble, art, and taste, have made everything bewitching, blight, and beautiful. In the corner of the parlor is a beautiful full-length statue of little Blanche, which Mr. Graef, the German sculptor, has -so beautifully chisel- led in marble; but in yonder rosewood crib lies a mute, marble face, to which Death, the last chiseller, has given his final touch. As I kiss the fair brow and lay the white rose-buds in the little folded hands, I say through the blinding tears, "If Blanche Page could have lived to have spoken to her child only once! that child so, mourned, so longed for! but it was too late. If Annie could have only clung to this little lost lamb that fatal moment of that fatal morning, this little voice wou'd not be hushed, these eyes not sealed in their dreamless sleep!" "It might have been," is life's endless tragic dirge, its illevitable sad refrain. Poor Annie has only spoken or opened her eves once, and then she moaned out again, "I have killed my child," "It might have been," is the wail of the wide world's aching, restless heart. Blanche Milleen was buried, and Annie knew nothing of it; she gave no good-by kiss, shed no tears on the little closed coffin-lid. My little Blanche Page is just the age of little Blanche Milleen, and her features and wavy brown hair are strangely and strik- ingly like -hers. I go home, dress my little Blanche in a light! blue mering dress, and take her with me to the Arlingtons. I go softly up into Annie's room; Blanche has a little bunch of white rose-buds in her hands. After awhile, Annie sighs, opens her eyes, as if awaking from some dream, and calls, "Blanche!" I put my little Blanche by her bedside. Annie starts, puts her hand on the child's head, and says, "Is my little Blanche come back again?" page: 152-153[View Page 152-153] 152 TOGETHER. Nelson walks softly out, gets hislittle Blanche's doll, and comes and puts it in the child's hands. Annie lies still, gazing at her, as the tears roll down her face. Blanche Page looks up into Annie's face and says, "Don't try, lady ; Bans Pade take care of oo." Annie threw her arms round Blanche's neck, and Nelson gent- ly lifts the child up on the bed by herF side. Annie is not quite Herself yet; she seems in some way to associate this child with her little lost darling. We think she believes it is really Blanche, as the child says, putting her arms about Annie's neck again, "Don't try, lady; Bans Pade take care of oo." Nelson stands by the window; I see the tears doming; the sweet, soothing child-voice has deeply moved and thrilled him. If he were only a woman I could steal around behind him and clasp him to my heart! But I sit still, and my heart clasps his great soul in sympathy. It is his only hope for Annie that this little one will nestle in her aching, lonely heart, in little Blanche's place. As I look at -Nel- son Milleen, I can't help thinking, Why are not more men like you, with your ready tact, wise head, and warm heart? Your strong faith is a great rock of shelter-in earth's weary land. Why do some men so nearly reach the type divine, and others fall so far below the nature human? There are some flowers you can't pass without getting a breath of perfume: so there are balmy souls; you can't meet or approach them, but you have better, sweeter thoughts. 'Nothing is expedient that is not right, and the Right is always expedient," is Nelson Milleen's motto. He would follow a duty to the cannon's mouth, run out of breath to catch it. I have never forgotten hearing John Trap say once, 4 There's no use in running yourself out of breath to catch a duty." Nelson never seemed to think of himself first. Thanks for the few balmy souls that soothe and solace, and so often save us from sudden, utter despair. You and I, reader, have met some mosquito souls, I call them. As you glide by them on the- sea of life, they give you a sting and bite, and, if possible, extract the very life-blood of your in- nocent joy, and rob brief peace of its quiet rest. They bling to light the sacred grief of your suffering soul, hunt out hidden faults, and explore the labyrinth of your past life- to drqg out and torture half-forgotten, repented follies, and bombard with harsh- est words the: castle ot your sensitive soul. Earnestly we do pray to be delivered from such biting, stinging, battering spirits, TOGETHER. 153 and whose sole mission is to prove that our words, deeds, motives, whole conduct, is ignorantly stupid or wilfully wrong. They may have lordly forms, but their souls are the smallest specimens of entomology. They have some rudimental vestige of a heart, and plenty of spiritual, -movable antennae, to feel sharp and quick for people's faults. They belong to the third class, the insecta tribe of souls, and somewhere between the sharp angle of their mouth and eyes are invisible, widely-extended organs of touch and hearing. These insecta souls seem to be created to say, know, and do thel very things you don't want to have them. If there is a hopeless sorrow garnered up in the heart, they 'll tire- lessly search and drag it out in the broadest light, bring it before the court of inquiry, catechise, cross-examine, and torture it. And so the best of us are stung, exasperated, angered, by these mosquito people, who haunt every city and infest every town. No famine or fall-frost ever starves or fireezes them out. The dearest secret is told, our right motives tortured, our wrong im- mortalized, and those who love us best secretly told, "If you knew what I do, you would n't think her so near perfection." The tallest, grandest soul that nears closest Duty's clear skies, is often stung most. As I saw one day on the most beautiful painting at the Art-Union, away up on the top of its golden glory, a mosquito had flown; I was glad, as I saw the insect rest there, that it had no power to sting divine art, though it might tease and trouble nature. So I found my Blanche, so I resigned her; and only a week after that first morning she stood by Annie Milleen's bed, I went in as she sat on her little chair, singing dolly, to sleep in its pret- ty new cradle. It is Blanche's dolly, and Annie says the little maiden is happy as long as dolly's quiet head can be laid by her side every night in the little crib. . As she rocks and comforts her dolly, I say, "What is your name, child?" "Bans Pade Miuddeen," she says, as Nelson comes in with a new carriage he has bought for dolly. Nelson is one that will never put a child off with those mean- ingless, everlasting, discouraging by-and-byes, one of these days, and 1 'll see about it. To-day's gingerbread is better to a child than to-morrow's frosted pound-cake. The blithe songs of that pretty bird in childhood's eager hand is so much sweeter than the thousand unseen, unheard birds in the promised bush! Little Blanche's heart is like a sky without 4i cloud, -from zenith to horizon all blue. The onljy pure, cloud- page: 154-155[View Page 154-155] 15 v... TOGETHER. less ultramarine of soul we ever find out of Heaven, domes over the fairy world of a child's- young, joyous heart! As I'go to bed, so tired that night, I think I have left the orphan Blanche in the best-of homes, and I can't be too glad or too happy about it. The joy we feel in findin g and achieving another's happiness is the sweetest balm God ever distils for human souls. The joy we have given another is the one radiant diamond on the bosom; of peace; it will sparkle through every fold of sackcloth with which life, death, or destiny may shroud our lot. There may be one link of steel in that earthly lot; so cold and strong, no change, no hope can break or brighten it; yet if we wreathe around one lowly, lonely, helpless child-heart a wreath of hope or heart's-ease, the balm of a thousand soul-flowers may come to us, though the steel link of that trial we must have still chokes and stifles our joy. Blanche might have been a poor, blind victim of selfish cruelty; now those blue, bright, beautiful orbs look out only on loving faces! How much good I might have done before, if I had only thought! "Oh the wounds I might have healed, The human sorrow and smart; ^ And yet it never was in my soul To play so ill a part; But evil is wrought by want of thought, / As well as want of heart." , \ . ' - TOGETHER. 435 CHAPTER XXI. GONE. "Strive for the truth unto the death, and the Lord shall fight for thee." F SOME one is coming up-stairs. It does n't sound like a man, nor yet -is it Harry's quick, light step. There is a pause at-the door, and then a feeble, irresolute knock. I open. It is Harry, after all, though it did n't sound like him. But what is the matter? i'l He looks as if he had lost all of his friends. His eyes are red and swollen. He has two books in his hands, and a slate. I know the books; one is "Playfair's Euclid," and the other "Day's Algelbra., "Why, what is the matter, Harry?"I say, as I take his cold i hand in mine. , "He 's gone, he 's gone! I saw him go this morning. He went at ten o'clock, and I could n't even speak to him, or shake hands with him. I could only look at him, as I stood on the side- walk. He did n't turn his head, as they moved on. I could n't bear to see him there, marching in that mhd. I'd rather walk there myself. I 'm only a boy;" and the boy actually sobbed. "Who 's gone, Harry?" "Mr. Heart has gone, gone with the regiment." "Gone! gone!" said I. "Did you know he was going? Are you sure it was he, Harry?"I said, my voice suddenly choking. "Yes, I went to his room this morning. Mr. Melit's little boy is to be buried to-day; so the store is closec, and I thought I 'd take my books and go and see Mr. Heart. He always told me to come any day when I had time. Ever since he has had fire in his room evenings, le has let me come there three evenings a week and recite to him in Algebra and Geometry, and only last- night I had just got to the evolution of comhpound quantities in Algebra, and as far as the ninth proposition in the fourth book of Euclid. He explained it to me so plainly how to describe a, O . page: 156-157[View Page 156-157] 1v6 . -- TOGETiER. circle about a given square. Here are Hr. Heart's figures, all over the slate, and there is the square," said Harry, sobbing again. (Let me have that slate, Harry," said I, " and you may take mine. I 'll write your name on it, and heie 's a place to put in a cord to fasten your pencil and spone ;" and I gave Harlry mine, which was really much better for him to carry about than that big, cracked, clumsy one, with one side of the frame off. "That 's Mr. Heart's slate," said Harry; " he lent it to me." "Very well; leave it here till he comes back; I 'll take care of it." "Perhaps he 'll never come back," said Harry. "People we love best very often die, or get killed." "We 'll try and not think of that," said I, " and to-night you may bring your books around, and I '17 teach you in your Algebra and Euclid. Mr. Heart will be glad to know that you are getting on well with them. It is a comfort, when o/ur friends are away, to know we are doing what they like to havre us do, and you can go on just as fast as you like with your German and French Ollendorf." I have given Harry, for three months, lessons in French and German. He learns very readily and rapidly, and what is more unusual, he never seems to forget anything once learned. Last Tuesday evening he came in with two bounds up the stairs, with a laugh in his eye, and handed me his Ollendorf, open at the fifth lesson, saying, "I vaut mieux rester ici que de se,"--"It is better to stay here than to go a-walking;" and as he looks at me and sees me more elaborately dressed than usual, lie says, in German, "Erwarten sie freunde?"-"Do you expect firiends? He recited perfectly to me the whole of the fobrty-seventh lesson in the German Ollendorf, without a single mistake in the lesson or the exercise. "Did Mr. Heart tell you he was going last night?" "Oh, no! I don't believe he meant to go then, but some news came this morning, or very late last night. I heard the news- boys crying in the street about a terrible battle. Mrs. Cater thinks something made him start right off, for he left things in his room just as they were. Besides, he told me to come around again on Thursday evening so I know he could n't have been sure of going." , What did he talk about last night, Harry?" "He was quite funny Oand bright. I never saw him more TOGETHER. 157 lively. But there 's one thing I 'm sorry now that I did. I would n't have said it for anything, if I had known he was going away. I only did it to tease him a little." What was that, Harry?" ("Why, I talked about you, how you were trying to teach me I to talk French ; and he asked me all sorts of questions in French, I to puzzle me; and at last I told him in French, just for fun, that I thought you would marry Mr. Glenstein one of these days; and I said something like it to him the day after Mrs. Page's i' funeral." I "How could you say that, Harry?" and then I thought I had n't seen Mr. Heart since the funeral. "I don't know what made me, I'm sure. He looked very I sober, and did n't talk any more all the evening, but went on with I my Algebra, without saying a word; and I was a little sorry, but I i[rhdeif I had only seen him to-night I would have told him something else." "What, Harry?" "Why, that I did n't believe you cared a button for Mr. Glenstein. I 'd say anytiling to bring back one of those bright i nsmiles on his face again. 1 'd say that you must have some great, wonderful man if you'ever married." "Harry," said I, slowly, and trying to speak calmly, " don't you ever say anything which you don't think is true, even in jest. Unless you know people are going to marry each other, never put their names togetherl. You may offend somebody, or do some mischief. Besides, Mr. Glens;ein might be annoyed, if by any possibility he should hear of it." 'f I don't think he would be offended," said Harry, with a kind of expressive half-smile momentarily glear ing through his tearful eyes, and playing on his quivering lips. "A You don't work to-day, Harry ; what would you like to io?" "I would like it if I could,' but I can't afford it, to buy a wreath or cross: of white flowers and lay on little Willie Melit's coffin, and a few white roses to put in his folded hands. Wil- he was very fond of' me, and I loved him very much, and I should have felt bad enough to-day if Mr. Heart had n't gone away. I don't see why all the troubles must come together; " and Harry's big brown eyes filled with tears again. "They make me feel as if I want to go away or die, too. If I was only big enough, I would have gone off to-day in Mr. Heart's regiment. I 'd be happy wherever I was, so long as I coulc see the top of his cap page: 158-159[View Page 158-159] 1i, \ TOGETHER, marching on before me. His hat is wiser than most men's heads., . "He seems to me like a brother; he -always had a kind word for me. He has done me ever-so-many favors. I should n't have known anything if it had n't been for him, --nothing but long division and the multiplication table, - and now I; might as well be a dunce again. He put thoughts in my head, and made me feel that even I, a poor stupid boy, might live to be somebody yet." "Who calls you stupid, Harry?" "Mr. Gala; because when I first went to the store I did n't know the difference between quarto, octavo, and duodecimo, and he has called me stupid ever since. But Mr. Heart never called me stupid. If he knew anybody was stupid he would n't say so; he could n't hurt any one's feelings. He was good enough to be a minister, and great enough to be a king. I never knew what it was to have such a friend before, and I don't know but I would. rather have him sick and take care of him, or die and watch with him till the last, and comfort him a little, if I could, than to see him go as I did this morning, and not know what danger he may go into, or what is going to become of him. "It is dreadful to think of a bullet being aimed at his noble head, or a sword at his great heart, or to have that hand, that writes such wonderful things, taken off in one moment; and if he should be killed, you could n't find one to put in his place in the whole world, any more than you could put a star in Sirius's place to- morrow, if to-night he shoulq go out of the sky forever." I did n't feel like reasoning with Harry about honored graves and patriots' laurels, or repeating the comforting words, "T is sweet for one's country to die;" for I could n't help thinking it is sweet for one's country to live. I said, "Harry, here are two dollars; go and buy'a wreath for little Willie's coffin, and some white rose-buds to put in his hands. You don't know what good there's in store for you yet. You and I oight to be thankful that-we are still in the land of the living. You may grow up to be a man like iMr. fIeart, yet. You are not stupid, Harry; I think you are bright; you can learn anything if you only try. I will be your friend, and you shall be mine. 1 should be lonely with- out you, Harry." Harry went out. I looked at Ernest Heart's slate; the last delicate traces of his hand were there, -neat, clear, correct, - the sixth root extracted in the example of the evolution of compound I TOGETHER. 159 quantities, and I wished that some skilfu:, powerful hand would extract the root of this fearful war, without such an endless evolution of the great compound quantities of private and public calamities! Everythng had seemed dark and gloomy; the sky had lost its radiant blue, the earth its sunniest green, the June air " its rosiest balm, since first the war-cloud, no bigger than a man's hand, rosein the Southern sky. I had filt the chill, the shadow, the weight, and the gloom; but until now the cloud had not burst over my head, shadowing me in darkness, like an overwhelming, all-enfolding, deathly pall. I felt that of all my bright, perfect, pleasant dreams, I had nothing left but Ernest Heart's poor broken slate. "What a soul Ernest Heart has!"I said, pacing my room back and forth, hurriedly, excitedly, despairingly. 'Tis an athletic soul,--hale, noble, skilful, brave; it can climb the high- est hills of thought, breast the deepest waves of emotion, travel long pilgrimages of contemplation, keep tireless bivouac with starry thought, storm endless batteries of doubt, do successful battle with legions of giant errors, win countless laurels of glory, lead weaker, fainter souls fast and far in the field of truth and "duty! - major-general of regiments o' drooping, despairing hearts,- leading them upward and onward to the palace named Thy Beautiful, and the chamber called Peace! Yes, Ernest Heart.! thy good, great soul can do all this, and va-stly more, and grow grander and braver still. Is not this thy mission? predestined, sure, successfull! But a day's march on the rough field, a week's bearing the knapsack; and thy foot may talter forever, thy hand evermore lose its cunning, thy eye fade, thy lips be hushed, and that sweet lyre of song be unstrung forever! The name of Er- nest Heart, that might have thrilled our country's loving hearts, years after War's long agony shall be over, will only be hidden in a soldier's quiet grave, or carved on a lonely Greenwood slab. It must not, must not be! There are limbs stronaer than thine, stalwart arms that can better grasp the sword, feet that without faltering can march to victory; with their strong, endur- ing humanity, these athletic forms shall do battle, and conquer. In the green fields of our fatherland are innumerable com- panies of flowers, precious for their deathless perfume, and in the blue dome o'erarching that fair land' are troops of golden stars, priceless for their ceaseless shining. So let us keep, priceless and precious, some goodly companies of crowned, imperial, sweet-flowering, and star-lit souls, to do their page: 160-161[View Page 160-161] 160 TOGETHER. unfailing shining over the desolate homes of our living, and, the sacred graves of our dead! -But that Ernest Heart's flower- crowned and star-lit soul must fade and die Oh, I wish I could call him back to his home among the living stars! But where has he gone? When I know not where, each hour seems a perilous one. I would shelter his dear head from every storm,. I cannot help it, but ever since Harry told me this morning that he was gone, these sweet, sad words wail through my heart, like a dirge, - "Oh, empty heart! Oh, palace, rich and purple-chambered, when will thy lord come home?" Here comes Jane, with a note fromn Harry, enclosing these few lines, written with a pencil, in Ernest Heart's hand. They are dated this morning; perhaps late last night he heard of Prof. Mitchell's death. They ale written hurriedly. I read them as well as I can with my blind eyes, as I think how far that Ernest Heart is departing from me that to-morrow and to-morrow will bring him no nearer. It sounds to me like a message from the dying. IN MEMORIAM. 'MD starry souls of ages! our country's joy and pride, Among our living sages none standeth by thy side; We in the valley crown thee With glory all thine own, On Science's mountain hoary, high priest thou reign'st alone; Her holiest holy entering, low bending at her shrine, We see through cloud-veil rending, thy breastplate starry shine. In Glory's Alpine eyrie thy fame hath nestled long, - Let star-eyed poets wreathe thee with sweetest bay of song; How soon thy mantle radiant was downward, backward flung, As through a land indignant the warrior-clarion rung. Thv tireless bivouac ended, thy sleepless watch with stars, As thy great soul ascended, with '.he " red planet Mars;" And left thou, without murmuring, thy growing. dazzling fame, To write with patriot's bleeding thy loved and honored name. On Danger's mountain lofty we saw thee nobly stand, Toiling for starless Afric, with thy devoted band; Well o'er thy pall so proudly the starry flag may wave; Was ne'er laid hero sadly, beneath more star-lit grave. As through the land in sorrow came tidings dark and wild, We veiled our hearts in sackcloth, for Fame's beloved child; And oh! how Science mournetli her tearful, stricken lot, And without comfort waileth, for Benjamin is not. Yet weep no longer, mortal, chained to this earthly shore, For him who 'll rise in glory, for ever, evermore; TOGETHER, 161 Far up those heights celestial there peals no note of war, To break communion blissful with each beloved star. For there, so close beside him, Capella takesl her place; He meets the full-orbed Sirius, like angel, face to face; And in the great blue highway, Orion comes once more, As gentle sister Pleiad dawns on the shilling shore. He sees the mystic clusters, on earth so faint and dim, Shouting for joy around him, singing their morning hymn; Their grand and mighty anthem, so faint to mortal ear, On Music's tuneful daughters bursts ravishing and clear. With floods of dazzling glory, his raptured soul awakes, As on his unsealed vision the Via Lactea breaks; With brow like angel's shining, on his new, ravished sight, Shall break, and break forever, those endless fields of light. In Greenwood's quiet shadows was whispered, "Dust to dust; " No faithfil marble vigil could keep so precious trust; Thy soul, when grieved hearts aching, laid -hee so lowly down, Its lofty flight was taking for God's great Northern Crotn. I don't criticize this poem! It is written with a pencil, and hears the marks of thought's first rougI hieroglyphs. Had Ernest Heart prepared it for publication, he would have chiselled, measured, and toned it down to his ideal type of melody; then, without fiiction or fault, it might float on the tide of song into' your inmost soul. Yet I like it, because in its carcanet of thought I see a little pearly tear glisten in every word.' Something else should be said of Mitchell besides this obituary in a national almanac. "He was a devout man, and carefully at- tended to the moral welfare of his troops." I never wished I had been a man, but I would like to be one for once. I would stand in the New York Academy of Music, and deliver an -oration, studded with starry praise; thought's moonlight and meteor glow should gleam and glisten in each enthusiastic, eloquent word. I would call the oration "The laurel and the stars," and this is the way I would close it: - "We lisping children of Science were carried in the strong arms of his great soul, up the celestial heights. He gathered and bouquetted for us those golden flowers of Heaven, spelling out for us the dim, faint characters of those earliest runic rhymes, cut in starry lines on the sapphire Bible above. Far up those highest latitude, he carried us aloft, guiding throughl pathlesss labyrinths, exploring those primitive caverns, tilose deep, dark, mammoth caves of beauty, hung with starry stalactites! We could see his brow, damp with the dew of thought; his soul, fevered with sleepless i 1 page: 162-163[View Page 162-163] TOGETHER. I longing, and faint with far climbing, as he bore us up the golden palisades, - our brows unwearied, and our souls bathed in the light of his starry communings. Shall not we dumb children, nurtured by his genius, as we see the chariot of his ascending soul part the war-clouds and join the stars, break forth into song as we cry, 'My father, my father, the chariot of glory, and the rider thereof!" I can never forget his thrilling speech at the great meeting on Union Square, and I wish I could rear in this little book a monu- ment half as goodly and, grand as went up in my soul's great Greenwood last night, among the many lowlier marbles rearing their heads, grass-grown and tear-inscribed, among Grief's droop- ing willows. May some of the Future's gifted sculptors chisel out of the great rock of immortality, and monumental builders rear on Fame's great Central Park, this monument, with the device of a wreath of laurel, inwoven with a crown of stars, and carve be- neath it this inscription:- ORMSBY MACKNIGHT MITCHELL, Died at Beaufort, S. C., Oct. 30, 1862. Director of Thought's Observatory; Brigadier-General of Volunteers on the field of Stars; Commander of the Department of Astronomic Science; Defender of the Faithful Free; Martyr to the Fearless Brave; Soldier and Sage: Thy wreath-crown is inwoven with Laurels, inlaid with Stars. TOGETHER. 163 CHAPTER XXTIL 0 AUREOLA. "Oh that my words were now written! 0 that they were printed in a book." JOB xix. 23. I CANNOT be to sit still alone with sorrow. It is like look- ing into my own coffin, or listening to my own dirge. If the trouble is one I can improve or mend, I have a giant's strength of heart. I can lift the heavy weight or roll t e great stone away! If the trouble is a lost joy, or a joy that is dead and cannot live again, I give it Christian burial, rear above it the marble of patients regret, carve upon it the word ~ resignation," and plant about it as many heart's-ease as I can, and, wiping away my tears, go and robe my spirit anew for young Joy's coming; but if a trouble is neither a dead or buried joy, but a living trouble, like a perpetual ghost, an endless shadow; nc time lessens it, no oblivion hides it, no forgetfulness veils it, even with a gossamer veil. I have, a vivid memory; it is an evergreen. Nothing ever growing beside it fades or withers; and so, as I think of Ernest Heart, it will be a new grief every morning, and fresh every evening. I cannot wish him back. I cannot make one march less weary, or rob an hour of its perin. The news of each battle shocks, alarms, terrifies me; I lie awake all night, and at morning dream of cannon-roar, battle-din, and terrible death. So every night I have no sleep, and every morning I endure a battle. This will never do, I say. I shall fall at last, wounded in life's conflict, with no laurel upon my head, no glory gilding my name; and conscience, the sternest of coroners, will say, "Died for want of nourishing faith and sustaininng patience." )I wish God would give me something absorbing to do, claiming my thoughts, energy, and time. I suppose if I had a dozen half-, clad children to feed and clothe, I might be torn rudely away from this daily bread of tears; but my wardrobe is abundant and complete, my wants satisfied, and I have no heart to gratify taste and enjoy pleasant sights and sweet sounds, while the ear- page: 164-165[View Page 164-165] 164 TOGETHER. nest hearts in our land are beating only to keep time with War' cruel march on distant battle-fields. How can any true woman' heart bound or beat or thrill to any glad waltz or festive march This has been a long day, I say to myself, - the longest day oi my life; and the night will be longer. Oh! how I dread it. 'T is evening. Harry is here. He does n't read much Frencl to-night, and I can't help it. He will talk about Mr. Heart; h( don't seem to think of anything else. He has been talkinc about a battle this morning, (it was in progress last night,) till ] begin to be almost wild. At last he says, I 'll tell you some" thing, Miss Louise, - I know you 'll never mention it, - you know enough never to say anything people don'i nt you to, and I don't think there is any harm in telling lu, now, tho Mr Heart is gone. Messrs. Gala and Melit publish a great many books; they make a great deal of money by it; anti Mr. Heart had a manuscript he brought there for the reader,' "What kind of a manuscript, Harry?" "A story, Miss Louise, some kind of a story. Mr. Hearl brought it there. Thedy kept it seven weeks, and I heard Mr. Gala tell him that they had decided not to publish it. They had had enough works of the kind already, -it had n't in it enough of the popular element,--but I overheard Mr. Umpire, the reader, muttering over to himself, that it was written so illegi- bly, he would n't be bored to decipher it; and I don't believe he did read ten pages of it. Mr. Heart took it back one Mon- day; he looked disappointed wheh he took it. He took it up as if he could n't bear to touch it. He is so sensitive, he'll never offer it anywhere else ; so it 'll have to lie in that, drawer, like a body in the grave. He 'll never raise it again. - He is very proud, Miss Louise, very proud. He lent me a "Robinson Cru- soe " once, and some'other books, and told me where the key was to the lower drawer in his bureau. I was to put ,the books back in that drawer when I finished them. That e Cruwoe " he seemed to think as much of as if the leaves and cover (were all made of pure gold. I can't see why, for it is an old book, the cover is almost off, and a great many leaves are loose. and there ar'n't but two pictures in it. I put the 1"Crusoe " back in the drawer, and I saw stowed away in the corner that manuscript. I 'd known it anywhere; I know the color of the Wrapper, and I know what is written outside of it. I thought, as I looked at it, I wished I was a publisher, and I 'd publish it, if only to please Mr. Heart." TOGETHER. 165 "That;would be a queer reason, Harry. You might as well ji4 buy that poor butter of that old woman who comes along every week with bitter apples and stale vegetables -just to please her." "Well," said' arry, "I 'i do anything to please Mr. Heart. :i I would publish it if I were a publisher. Mr. Heart has a good i htead, good heart, and good soul, good taste, and good sense. I don't XI see why he would n't make a good book. I don't think he would ever try to do anything he could n't do well. But there 's one thing: there's a good many good books the pfublishers don't take, and some poor ones they do publish, and- they are awful sorry for it too. I heard Mr. Melit say so only yesterday. 1 'd like to make 'ern orry, I thought yesterday, as I went to put up another book fi that drawer, and saw that lonely manuscript there, shut -ap in its dark dungeon, wher. it might be going all round the world on white wings, like a bird. I put the key in the corner of the upper drawer, in a little green box, and I sup- X pose," said Harry, "1 'll never take it oat again and if Mr. H Heart should :be killed, he will have to be covered up some- where in some lonely corner of earth, and the book will die too. I Is n't it a pity, Miss Louise, that good thoughts and beautiful should have to die as soon as they are born?" "It is a great pity, Harry," said I, " but it is worse for a thought to be killed than to have it die. Some young, bright thoughts starve to death for want of a kind godmother, and light, and air; many a warm, beautiful, glowingl thought is frozen or starved. I read this last night in Milton's ' Areopagitica,'-' As good almost kill a man as kill a good book: who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image; but he who destroys a good book kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were, inthe eye. Many a man lives a burden to the earth; but a good book is the precious life-blood of a rr aster-spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life. We should be wary, therefore, what persecution we raise against the living labors of men, how we spill that seasoned life of man, preserved and stored up in bookst since we see a kind of homicide may be thus committed, sometimes a martyrdom,- a kind of massacre, whereof the execution ends, not in the s:aying of an elemental life, but strikes at the ethereal and fifth essence, the breath of reason itself; slays an immortality rather than a life. " Harry sits thinking, and suddenly breaks forth into this ex- clamation, - " wish I was n't a boy, Mis$ Louise; I wish I did n't have to be a boy!" page: 166-167[View Page 166-167] 166 TOGETHER. A"Why, Harry?" said I. "; Yes, I do -I am tired of being only a boy; I'd like to wake up to-morrow morning a full-grown man, just as quick as Mi-- nerva sprung firom the head of Jupiter ; only I 'd want to wake up educated and knowing everything a man oughlt to. Everything that's missing or wrong or mislaid is charged upon me, because I am a boy. They make such a fuss about woman's rights. If I could be a man to-morrow, I 'd go around and lecture upon boy's rights! Every day Mr. Gala calls me 4low, and I 'm sure I'm running half the time for him; and then he says I am stu- pid,- and I try to be as bright as I can. I know I see a great many things he does n't; he says I 'm lazy, and I work from morning to night he says I'm stubborn, and hAenows I 'd most break my neck for him any time; he calls me idle, and I 'mn busy all day long. Before I finish one thing, he has something else for me, and he expects me to do two things at once; and when I 'm accused or blamed or scolded unjustly, I can't speak to defend myself, or make any explanation; he always says, in his roughA sharp voice, 'I don't want any explcizations.' If I ever do speak to deny a charge, he calls mne pert, saucy, impu- dent, bold. And he knows he can't get another boy to do as I do. I wish I could walk in to-morrow morning, a full-grown man, and tell him I had decided I must Ihave higher wages, that I had another place in view. I 'd like to see him put on one of those sweet, customer smiles of his, and hear him say, 'Oh! we don't want to have you leave us, Mr. Aster.' Would n't it be splendid? I wish," said Harry, sitting still a few moments, and then speaking out again, "I wish Mr. Goethe had been a pub- lisher, and I his clerk." "Mr. Goethe!" said I; " why, who do you mean?" "Oh! I mean that Mr. Goethe that wrote the book I saw in Mr. Heart's drawer, Wilhelm Meister.' The other day, when Mr. Gala was out of the store, I happened to open one of Black- wood's Magazines, and the page I read was all about Mr. Goe- the; and I read these sentences ofibis over and over, -' Great talents are essentially conciliatory, and age makes us tolerant; I never see a fault which I did not myself commit.' Mr. Gala has gray hairs on his head - he is growing old - but age don't make him tolerant. If Mr. Goethe had seen him, perhaps he would, n't have said it. I believe, Miss Louise, thatgreat souls ,are kind to and patient even with boys; but it is hard to be a boy. I don't quite understand it, but I think it was very noble for such --TOGETHER. 167 a great man as Mr. Goethe to say, I never see a fault which I did not myself commit.' Mr. Gala always says, inside, - I know it by his face,- -1 never make any mistake(y; and, Miss Louise, I did get real mad inside this morning wheni I handed him the Anthologia Sanscritica' instead of Wilson' Sanscrit Grammar.' He asked for one of those Sanscfit books, and I did n't know which he wanted& Mr. Gala said he never did such a thing, he was brought up to know better; it was a pity 1 had n't a little grain of common sense; he could n't do anything with such a block- head. It makes me mad every time I think of it," said Harry, with quivering lips; "I wish I did n't have to be a boy'; and then people are so often patting me on Ithe head, and saying I have got such a nice place, I must try and make a man of myself, and I ought to be very thankful to Mr. Gala for his interest in me." Thle old clock in the hall strikes eight. Harry has n't read a word of French yet; so, instead of giving him a moral lecture upon the duties of boys, how patient, submissive, resigped, pliable, thankful they should be, I tell him ;o open his book and read me a little French. He is reading ' Les Miserables,' in French, and he feels proud and grand about it. Enlist a boy's pride and am- bition, and he 'll do anything for you. Harry will think, and I can't get it out of his head, that the Bishop Bienvenu was a foolish man to give the thief the two silver candlesticks after he had stolen the six silver plates and the large ladle. "Why, Miss Louise," he says, ( if a few such self-sacrificing bishops should club together, they might make a great burglar encouragement society, for the promotion of silver circulation among rogues generally." "Harry," I say, " you know the great Bishop of all souls said, 'If any man will take away thy cloak, give him thy coat also,'- so if any man take away thy plates of siver, give him thy can- dlesticks also; one was the text of the Bishop of all souls, the other the text of the Bishop Bienvenu. Through all the congre- gation of stories in years to cO..e, among Fiction's crowned he- roes, this Bishop Bienvenu's mitre of goodness will gleam out and tower above all the robed priests and crowned queens of author- land. As he stands-in his majestic simplicity and gentle tran- quillity in the cathedral of genius,-an -undoubted peer of the realm of fiction, he ordains and consecrates a new, higher ideal of goodness, and suspends and excommunicates our old earth- born rules of criticism." page: 168-169[View Page 168-169] 168 TOGETHER. Harry finishes the last sentence in the twelfth chapter; hN translates it correctly, and reads it over slowly twice ; it seems tc make a deep, solemn impression on the boy's soul, as he repeats it earnestly aloud, and closes the book, - "Joan Valjean, n}y brother, you belong no more to evil, but to good. It is your soul that I am buying for you. I withdraw it from darlt thoughts and from the spirit of perdition, and I give it to God.' ' "Harry," said I, "you and I have never seen a man whose life has been so walled up with stony evil, that only a thunder.- bolt of goodness could reach, break, or shatter it. Down the deep mine of Jean Valjean's convict-soul, shut up for years in rayless dark, came Bishop Bienvenu's loving pity, like, a shaft of radiant light, enkindling every dusty corner of ghostly wrongs and haunting memories. This lightning from the heaven of a good, great soul touched and unsealed the fountain of tears fro. zen up- for nineteen long years of agony, as ( he knelt on the ground, in the shade, in- the attitude of prayer.' It burned out at last the gnarled roots of giant evil. The'pitying angel of the future was beckoning him away from the accusing demon of the past, stillcrouching, behind and gazing at him, as he knelt under the stars of that October night." There 's a sudden cry of fire, outside, and Harry, boy-like, tucks his books under his arm,.and hurries out to see where the fire is. I sit by my grate and think; I dread going to bed to-night. I shall only lie awake and grieve, just as I did last night. I take my Bible, and read just where I happen to open it-it is the Ninety-first Psalm. Tht whole psalm is a radiant carcanet, with its sixteen jewels. I read it over and over, and the last three verses gleam 'out like triple stars in my spirit's gloomy sky: "Because he hath set, his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him: I will set him bn high, because he hath known my name. He shall call upon -ne, and I will answer him: I will deliver him and honor him. With long life will I satisfy him, and show him my salvation." "With long life will I satisfy him," - I say the words over and over, and think of nothing else. I lie like a tired child, resting my soul quietly in my Father's arms, and the soft lullaby of this sweet psalm rocks me to sleep, - the first calm sleep I have had for a week. I go around quite early in the morning to see Miss Sewwell, and give her'something to do; but she is out - there 's nobody on that floor - it isall- still. Ernest Heart's door -is open ; there is TOGETHER. 1[69 that still sacredness about the room there always is when a good, brave spirit has lived and struggled there, as there lingers a sweetness and beauty round the empty vase we have so often seen filled with June's first roses. We never look at the vase but we think of the flowers; the divinity, is gone, but it is the I shrine still - and it seems hard, and almost wrong, to think of any one but Ernest Heart ever occupying that room. Tears fill my eyes as I stand a moment amid the " silence and sadness and ; gloom " that reigns over all the mute objects dwelling there in their undisturbed repose ; but I try to send the tears. back, as the words come again to my mind, i' With long life will I satisfy him." I go to the little green box, take out thelkey, open the lower bureau-drawer, and take out that manuscript- relock the drawer, replace the key, put the precious purloined] package under my shawl, and come quietly down stairs. I mneet a policeman on the corner. As I see his keen black eyes resting on me a mo-. ment, I wonder whether I am not a fit subject, one of his legiti- mate subjects of arrest. Yes, I suppose it is larceny; larceny is the act of taking and carrying away the goods or property of another; but it must be done "feloniously," that is, With the in- tention of committing a crime. That element is not in my lar- ceny; but yet it is not simple - it is " mixed and compound," because I take it from one's house - and according to the old statute (now abolished) it is a " grand larceny," being above the value of twelve cents. I think-it must be grand, for in tny esti- mation it is infinitely above that moneyed value; and I shall see how grand it is, coming from that grand, goodly soul. Any how,- I quiet my conscience this way, - if larceny, it is justifiable larceny, done in defence of genius. But who knows the value of any manuscript? what appraiser, shrewd or practised, can mark it truly? Line the seed in the ground, the future plant may be gloriously rare, fragrant, and beautiful, or it may be a failure, and never rise to its graceful proportions and charm, to dazzle passing beholders. The manu- script may be a locked harvest of golden thought, or a desert of those useless weeds, already growing rank and tall all over book- world. It is a tedious bore, I have often thought, to read any- body's manuscript. Thought must have the frame and light of print, to bring it out life-like. I hurry home, lock my door, open that package; on the outside of the folded wrapper is written this inscription, --To be privately buried in Fame's great Greenwood." page: 170-171[View Page 170-171] 170 TOGETHER. Poor Ernest Heart! he was going away, and knew how man march out of sight and never come back more; and this was h last will and testament, written with a weary, aching heart,-" desire this manuscript to be privately buried in Fame's gret Greenwood." He mnight have written beneath the words thi epitaph, which Hawthorne found on an old tombstone in a churcl yard near Leamington:-- "Poorly lived, And poorly died, Poorly buried, And no one cried." To see the pall of oblivion coverint a carefully nurtured an tenderly loved child of our brain, has something of thie pang, kee and bitter, one feels as the coffin closes over tEh" young, fai face of a dearly loved, beautiful child. The manuscript has no preface, only this dedication:-- I dedicate this book, Most gratefully, To LAURENCE GREENLEAF, My unknown, kindest Friend; Who first inspired me With heart. to begin, And hope to finish, These pages. I read the manuscript all day and all the evening. I sit ur poring over it, until midnight. It has a delicacy of fancy, a chart of style, a felicity of imagery, a gentleness of feeling - it is al plot, power, passion, and pathos. How I cry over it! I can' help it, and I don't believe anybody can help crying over it. Th name of the book is "Aureola." The manuscript is very blindl written; but I so enter into its thought that by patiently deci phering somre words a little plainer written than the rest, I get clue to the others.* I finished reading it about three o'clock th next day.- There were five hundred written pages, - I shoul think -about equal to the same number of printed pages. Th manuscript is so closely written, I don't wonder the reader could not or would n't read it; yet if he had even read the whole of tl first chapter, lie might have known the writer had power an, genius enough to write a good, successful book. - Some of th manuscripts is written on old brown wrappers, some on the back of letters, and'all of it on very coarse, miserable, cheap papel It may take me a month, - yet I will limit myself to a month, - but I will copy it all carefully and correctly, word for word, lette TOGETHER. 171 for letter, on fine, smooth, white letter-paper. I 'll go around and get one of those glasses I have seen the bld dlock-maker hlave over his eyes, when he is doing his very fine jeweller's work. I 'll magnify every twirl and curl, and every period and point, every letter and sentence, till I copy it just as it is, and if I have any skill in anything, it is in deciphering hieroglyphics. I get -the glass and the paper. Before dark, the first chapter of ten pages is carefully, legibly, accurately, and exactly copied. I call this my Septuagint. I 'll tell you why, reader, when it is all finished. I don't think about anything else but the book. I dream about the characters of the story eyery night, and I rise every morning at four o&clock and write until three in the after- noon. How prettily the chapters look, on their new, clean paoes. I take so much pride in paging them, and laying the finished pages so carefully away together by themselves, In thirty days it is done. The thirty-first day I take the old original manuscript, do it up in the same old brown wrapper, tie it up with the same piece of cord, and go round to Miss Sewwell's again. Poor Miss Sewwell! what a scape-goat I make ofher, Of course I want to see her badly enough, for I have n't sewed a stitch for myself in a month. How fortunate I am, I say, as I draw a long, thankful breath after safely depositing the package in its old corner. I relock the drawer, replace the key in!hat little green box. How fortunate I am not to be seen or heard in my secret, sus- picious, and surreptitious movements. I go home again. There is my little box if pens, No. 303, the best of pens, lying on the table; there the irk; there a few re- maining sleets of the smooth white paper. I lay them away. I do up my manuscript carefully and compactly as I can; but it is a weighty matter any how, and will take room and space, no matter how ingeniously I do it up. Before I commence anything, I 'always provide as if all hope were against me. When I must set about it;, I act as if there were no such thing as fear." But I must accomplish, in some way, whatever I undertake. I am going out to see a publisher, the best one I know about. I dress elegantly. The man sha'n't think I am working for my ,bread, and beggling the favor of his helping hand. I know very well, if the world thinks you can't do without it, it will treat you very cavalierly, or like a coquettish rmaiden. The world is a great flirt. If the world thinks you caA do without it, it will be- gracious, ivnd, polite, attentive,- it may take you up into its strong arms and even give you the warmest place in its hollow page: 172-173[View Page 172-173] 172 - TOGETHER. heart,-it may do for you the very thing you want. I take a carriage at the St. Nicholas, and ride to the publisher's. The firm is G. W. Caushus & Co. Mr. Caushus is the man I wish to see, for he has most to do with the publishing. I alight from the carriage with the manuscript, which I hide under my velvet cloak; yet I can't help feeling, as I open the door of the store, like a tin-pedler, taking my own wares to market; or a coal specula- tor, carrying coals to Newcastle. I keep my veil down, blushing like a little fool, and walking up to the book-keeper as daintily and timidly as if the floor was paved with eggs. "Is Mr. Caushus in?"I say in a " soft, cooing, vibratory voice." "Yes,' he answers politely, " he is over there, behind the desk." Holding my head very straight and walking very dignifiedly I approach the probable arbiter of my book's destiny; but tle wise, appropriate, suitable, fit, proper, irresistible words I meant to say, all vanished out of my head as I stand mute and duml before the well-known, widely-celebrated, successful autocrat o! book-world. There he stands, with one pen over his ear, and another in hii hand, writing away, as if he never intended to look up. At last I say. "I 'd like to see you a moment, sir." Without looking up, and scribbling away, he says, hurriedly,- "What is it? is it about a manuscript?" "Yes, sir; I have a manuscript I 'd like you to look at." "Got plenty of manuscripts now; can't look at anything." "Would you look at it some other time, sir? I think yot would publish it, if you should see it." "Well, perhaps you might come in, in four or five months, an( I II see - I might look at it, aand he writes away. I go back, annoyed, mortified, vexed. I never made a reques of any gentleman before without' its being granted; and I don' believe the man even looked at me, and I should n't wonder if bI the time I had passed round the next comer, he should forge that any such person as myself had been there. I don't believ he would have- noticed it, if Id had been dressed in sackcloth o even in rags. But though my pride is piqued, still I can se with my woman's eye," that Mr. Caushus is a shrewd, sagaciou business-man, and I have decided that he, and he alone, sha: publish my manuscript. And I sha'n't wait five months, either for him to take it and put it in his little room in the drawer. can go to all lengths in courage and perseverance for another when I can't speak a word for myself. l' TOGETHER. 178 "When a woman will, she will, you may! depend on 't, And when she won't, she won't, and that 's the end on't.' There's more truth in this than poetry, everybody knows. Something says to me the manuscript shall be published, - Be firm! one constant element in luck Is genuine, solid, old Teutonic pluck.-' "Give battle to the leagued world, if thou art worthy, truly brave, And thou shall find the hardest circumstance a helper or a slave." Somehow, when I feel strongly, some bit of poetry always comes into my head. I take the manuscript to a celebrated scholar, poet, and well- known critic. He promises to read it carefully through. I don't tell you how I persuade him to take all that trouble; but I offer some inducements, which most always succeed, even with poets, great, gifted, and unworldly-minded as they are. He is to read it in a week, and give me an opinion of its merits. He thinks I wrote it, --for I don't put Ernest Heart's name on the title-page until I am sure of having it published to suit me. Then it will come out, as " large as life, anq twice as natural," as Harry says. He reads it in a week. I go again on Wednesday. He gives me a concise, chaste, correct, complimentary review. It is just what I would have written myself. EHe says the plot is thrilling, the style charming, the thoughts elevated and original, the humor and pathos irresistible. Good, kind-hearted man. I thank him for saying just what he does feel, and not putting me off with trite, commonplace, heartless, cautious Criticism. If he had said anything about ' high moral tone,'"I believe I should want to have knocked him down. If I were, only a man, I would tell him frankly how grateful and happy he has made me; but as I am only a woman, I suppose I must n't make a fool of myself. So I say, "Thank you," and come off with my nmanuscript under my cloak again. This time I divide the parcel into two packages of equal size, - for my arms ached two whole diys after carrying that manuscript around one hour. I go to Mr. Caushus's store. He is out of town; won'!be back for five days. I go home.' A gentleman is waiting for rre in the parlor, He has come to tell me that the money I had put in a Mr. Jones's hands, to pay him a bill of about a hundred dollars, Mr. Jones has not paid him, but has probably app'opriated it himself. page: 174-175[View Page 174-175] 174 TOGETHER. The bill should have been paid three weeks ago. I am annoyed and!provoked. Of course, Mr. Jones has left the city, and gone, no one knows wherej and, besides, I could get nothing out of' him if he were here: he is a bankrupt and a knave. I promise to pay it next Monday. I feel very poor and very economical. My bloomer is on the table; it looks yellow and the stiffness is all out of it. I go down-stairs; I an) going to fix it over. The ironing- table is full of clothes. I take my bloomer in the dining-room. I have heard something about using acids in, bleaching hats. I am perfectly ignorant of the process, but I take it in my head I'll rub the crown over with some tartaric acid. It does look whiter, I say; after it is thoroughly dry I shall iron it. The fire is pretty low in the range. I sit on the sofa in the dining-room, and wait for the iron to, heat. Jane is talking with another girl. She and the girl are sitting by the table, bending over something. I go out; I see on the table rows of cards, seven in a row. I hear the girl (Maggie, Jane calls her,) talking about a fair-haired man, and a club-man, and a dark-haired man, and a ring, and a present, and some letters, &c. My curiosity is excited. I ask Jane for her tin pails; I see which fits best in the crown of my bloomer; I 'm going to use it for a block to press the crown on; I lay a damp cloth on it, put the pail inside, and iron the top and sides of the crown. "How nicely it looks; I can wear it two months longer," I say, as I'go into the kitchen and put the iron back on the range. Meantime I have heard Maggie tell Kate some very strange things, which I know were true, and Kate said suddenly, "Maggie, you told me when you were here last, I would get a letter on Monday, and a ring on Saturday, and I did, the very days you said." "Miss Louise, Miss Louise," said Kate, " let Maggie turn the cards for you." "I don't tell fortunes; I don't think it right," said Maggie. "I only turn the cards for the girls sometimes, because they tease me so; but they must n't put confidence in what I say. I only tell them just what comes into my head. I have n't touched cards for a year, only for Jane." "How did you know anything about cards," said I, "Maggie?" "I lived with a fortune-teller once, ma'am, about a year; and I watched her, and I got so bewitched about it, that I used to sit up in my room till one o'clock at night, some nights ;'and I studied them out till I knew what they meant. I'd look at the card till I 'd think I'd see some kind of a history in it." TOGETHER. 175 Strange, thought I; there is something queer about it; I don't believe in fortune-telling; and if I knew there was some one in the next room who could tell me all my past, present, and future, when I should be sick, who I should marry, and when trouble would come, I would n't know it for anything, if I could. I should live the trouble over every day, until it came; but I would like to make a wish about my manuscript, and see if Maggie would find anything in the cards about that. I should n't take it in a serious light, whatever she said. Of course I had no faith in it. So I made a wish that Mr. Caushus should publish my manu- script, and sell a large number. Of course Maggie did n't know ,my wish. Now, Mr. Caushus was a fair-haired man. I divided the cards in three packs, and Maggie laid them in rosws of sevens, and she said to me the first thing, "You 've had a disappointment in business this afternoon ;it is about money;. but it will be all right next iweek. Some money will come in a letter." Then she added, ( Your wish is connected with a fair- haired man; you 'have been across a little water to see him. You saw him once, but lie did n't say much. You went to-day; he was not in." "When will he be in?"I say. Maggie looks intently at the cards, and says, "In about five days; and you want him to do something for you. He will hesi- tate at first, but he, will do what you wish. You 'll go with him into that little room, and talk with I him about it." Maggie is look- ing intently at the cards, and speaks slowly, as if studying this all out, and she adds: "In the big room are a great mlany books, -and a great many gentlemen walking in and out, some of them have on spectacles, and some have mustaches. They are wise- looking men, - some are very thin, - and they all are in a great hurry to talk with that fair-haired nman who has a pen over one of his ears." "4 What do I want the fair-haired man to do for me, Maoggie?" said I. "Well, 1 should think you want him to help you about some- thing." "Is it about my sewing-machine?" said I. "Oh1, no, ma'am; you sit alone a great deal, and you do some- thing like writing, I should think. You bend( over and sit a long time, and I think you want the fair-haired man to do something like put a cover on a book." I started a little. I knew that no one in the house, or in the page: 176-177[View Page 176-177] 1 76 TOGETHER. city, knew how I had sat so many days, writing. My door was locked,and I was always alone. "I can see money on the cards all around you," said Maggie. "I should think you would have great success in what you are about; but it don't seem as much for you as for somebody else." The door-bell rang, I was called up-stairs. In five days more I went to see Mr. Cau-shus. Before I started I went into the kitchen to press out my wrinkled cloak. Maggie was there. "Maggie," said I, "did you ever see a clairvoyant?" "No, ma'am; but they say I could be one. I was put to sleep twice, a good while ago; and the second time I remember they put a lock of hair of some dead person in my hand, and I cried out, 'Oh, don't take me to the cold, cold, grave;' and after that I had a fit, and my cousins would n't -let me be put to sleep again. And only last week, a lady in New York came to see me, and asked me to go and be a medium. She would give me seven dol- lars a week. But I won't go; I don't think it is right." If there is anything in- clairvoyance, I thought, Maggie is a clairvoyant; and in some strange way the cards are a medium for her thoughts. She said, when she was asleep the first time, and v her eyes bandaged, some one asked her how she could see so much with her eyes shut. "It seems as if I had another sense," she answered. "' I see through an opening in the top of my head, - that place which is so soft and tender in an infant's head." I thought about all this as I walked down street, and made up my mind that so long as so many eyes had- seen, so many ears heard, and tongues testified of the mysteries of clairvoyance, I could n't say it was all a simple deception or foolish humbug; but as for me, I was puzzled, perplexed, and troubled by it. It would do me no good to try to be wise beyond what was written, and if I thought more of it, I might lose reason and everything else. It was strange, but as for me I would n't wish to see or ex- amine anything more of it. I would certainly keep awake nights and wonder and worry over it, with my temperament. It could do me no good; I'd let it alone. She had described Mr. Caushus's personal appearance, dress, and manner so that any one, hearing her and then seeing him, would recognize the man. Perhaps I did wrong to let her turn the cards for e e; but I felt in the mood of it; and if the best of us tell the events -of our lives, we must all own up to having done something sometimes foolish or wrong. X:- TOGETHER. 1" But while I am thinking about Maggie and the cards, I have reached the publisher's door. The poet's review is in my pocket. I walk up to Mr. Caushus's desk again; there is the same pen over his ear, and the inevitable paper before him. I stand there waiting. I suppose I might wait a week for him to look up; so I give a slight, explanatory, introductory cough, and say, "Can I see you a moment, sir? I won't detain you more than two minutes." Of course he knew what a woman's two minutes are. He looks up, and if ever I tried to Icok irresistible, it was then, as I said, "Will you please look at this?" handing him the poet's review, mentioning to him the illustrious name of its writer. Just then a tall woman, whose stature quite overshadows me, comes up to hiK, and taking hold of his coat-sleeve, in some powerful manner,- fairly spirits him away before my eyes into that little room back of the store. She nlmust be strong, and strong-minded too; I say, as I stand there alone in my glory. Pretty soon he comes back to the desk, and says to me, "Just step into that little room there; I 'll be there in a moment; " and I sit there, looking at that beautiful ivy growing in the pot by the window. It is a good omen, I think, if Mr. Caushus loves flowers, or if lie has bought that to carry home to his wife.- It is a little gem of a room; there are so many things I like in it,- a cozy, comfortable sofa, some choice books on the desk, and pic- tures on the walls. The man is a business-man, a man of re- fined taste, and a scholar. I am not half as afraid of him as I was. He stops a few moments to talk with those three middle-aged gentlemen, who each seems in such a desperate and determined hurry to see him, and he comes in, at last, to favor me with an audience, holding the poet's criticism open in his hand. After hearing all the logic and rhetoric I can give, asking me a few , questions, he says, "Well, I 'll take it, give it to my reader, and let you know next Wednesday. I 'll not promise to do anything with it, however." Next Wednesday I go again; he promises to publish it in six weeks' time, after making a bargain with me first about the terms. If he sells six editions, I am to have fifteen cents copyright; if he sells fifteen editions, I am to have twenty cents copyright; if only four editions, I am to have twelve cents copyright. It is a pretty good contract for an unknown author, and for a woman to make, for I hate making bargains. I used sometimes, when we were keeping house, to try to sell rags, or soap-fat, or old clothes. 12 page: 178-179[View Page 178-179] 178 TOGETHER. The rag-man would give me two cents less a pound than he gave anybody else, and insist upon it that my rags were very poor rags. The soap-fat man paid me five cents a pound for my soap- fat, while he made no objection to giving my next neighbor ten for hers; and when the old-clothes man came along, with his basket of china and glassware, I would tire myself most to death going up and down stairs, rummaging drawers, trunks, and clos- ets, in search of eligible dilapidated garments, until I had at last, after sundry deposits, erected a pyramid of them in the hall in front of the individual, who would say, "Have n't you anything more, ma'am - these are not much good; but I'm anxious to make trade to-day; so I 'll give you this beautiful vase for the lot." He values the vase at two dollars, but I find the next day I can purchase one, equally rare and beautiful, at the corner crockery-store for fifty cents. He turns on his heel, laden with the spoils of my wardrobe, expatiating on the wortlhlessness of the clothes and the great value of the vase. As I see his form grow beautifully less in'the distance, apq know I have made a precious fool of myself, I resolve thlat hereafter my garments shall be given to somne poor body whom they can make comnfortable for weeks; and if Iwant vases, I 'll buy them, or go without them. There must be a credulouso look in my face, something chal- lenging imposition, for the clerks so often tell me I can't buy that particular article I am buying, anywhere else in the city, for the price they ask me; when I know I can get it at the next door for five cents a yard less. As to beating anybody down, or asking if that is the lowest price, I never will. I feel cheap every time I think of it. I 'll know the value of a thing, and pay it; but no less and no more. I 'd rather make a whole house, if-I only knew how, from garret to cellar, than to nmake a bargain. The word makes me think of the old ceremony, when a victim was always killed at the solemn ratification of an oath. So with many a bargain now, - it seems to me something is almost always killed, - conscience, or honor, or right, or fortune, or something. A bargain most always has its victim; so I hate the word. The future will tell who is the victim,--the author, reader, or publisher. I am satisfied and pleased as I go out of the store. -, I am im- patient-to see the book announced; and in two weeks it is an- nounced in the publisher's circular,---"G. W. Caushus & Co., is . TOGETHER. 179 New York. 'Aureola.' In press--a new Novel, by Emrnest Heart." As I read this brief announcement over and over, how I want to tell somebody, but I can't. I must keep the secret shut up carefully in my head. I open the Bible at the Ninety-first Psalm, and read the chain of pearls over again, - A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand, but it shall not come nigh thee." I say it over and over, with a tear in my eye and a smile in my heart. This caapter is my rosary- I count its beads of promise every night before I go to sleep. I shall be happy and thankf'ul, proud and delighted, if this book I am getting published sells well. Poor little me would be too proud and happy. I know it is a good book; it has a k" won- derful realism and vivid force of line and color,"-- but will the world take it up? The fairest, loveliest, noblest women do not always become the brides of the most gifted, noblest men. So Fame does not always choose the most radiant, gifted belles of the thought-world as her royal and fortunate bride, decked in her illustrious crown-jewels; for strange, " singular, popular caprice often selects one moderately clever book out of the mass, and makes of it a great success," while vastly superior books are launched forth on the tide of destiny, unnoticed, uncheered, un- crowned. I can't explain this, any more than I can tell why a wonder- ful, great, and gifted man so often turns aside from bewitching beauty and grace, radiant charms of manner and mind, and woos and wins as his wife a moderately clever and decidedly plain woman, in whom none but him see any beauty or charm. But as to books, I wonder if the publisher has n't some wise, mysterious way of blowing up a plowerful gale, and driving the light novel-craft out into the wide sea of popularity. I found in Ernest Heart's book this- receipt for a fashionable novel. I copied it. He found it somewhere. For the benefit of any reader who wishes to write such a novel, I copy it here. The receipt, carefully followed, might ensure the sale of at least twenty thousand. RECEIPT FOR A FASHONABLE NOVEL. "TAKE your hero and heroine, and put them on to simmer, taking care that they do not boil over during the first volume. Be sure to throw in a sufficient quantity of dukessand duchesses.- Some literary celebrities might be added. Put to these a pound page: 180-181[View Page 180-181] 180 TOGETHER. and a half of love, anmounce of jealousy, and three or four drops of morality, just to give it consistence; but be careful not to put in tQo much of the latter, or it might turn-out heavy. To prevent this, sprinkle it over with small-talk, (if you Can procure any wit, so much the better,) and lard it well with quotations, French phrases, and incidents, which need have nothing to do with the main story. X "After having well stirred and strained them, you may pour all the personages into a country-seat or park, and leave the in- gredients to work together during the second volume. Be sure to drop in a country-ball, an election, private theatricals, and moonlight walks in plenty. You should then begin to consider how you mean it to turn out, and let the plot thicken. If it be to end well, and all to be cleared up, like a calves'-foot jelly, the most approved method is, for the hero and heroine to meet in the first volume, quarrel in the second, and marry in the third. ,But if the other plan, more like an Italian cream, be adopted, your heroine should marry towards the end of the first volume, fall in love in the second, and elope in the third. You may either kill her or not, as it suits you. "Having determined this point, spin your novel'out, strain it to the utmost; then butter the dish well with flattery of popular authors, garnish the heads of your chapters with German and Italian mottoes, and it will surely turn out to your wishes." Ernest Heart adds, for the benefit of young beginners, - The whole thing should be well done, and to get friendly reviews, the publishers should advertise extensively in all the leading papers." I go to sleep with the sweet refrain of this verse, ' But it shall not come nigh thee," ringing in my ears. I dream that the book is finished, and' hundreds of thousands are sold; and I wake to find the morning sunshine resting on the open leaves of my Bible. I fell asleep last night, and left the Bible lying open on the pillow beside me; and--Iam sure it is no imagina- tion of mine - the sunshine lingers most on this verse, - "With long life will I satisfy him, and show him my salvation." In the Bible of my heart the verse is writ, and through it gleams hope and faith's unfading, unfailing sunshine. - TOGETHER. 181 CHAPTER XXTII. i I BOY-WORLD. i "A little child shall lead them." I HAVE. been busy to-day, correcting the proof of this chapter in Ernest Heart's book. It was written by his mother, when Ernest was a little boy, five years old. -The name of the chapter is "My' Boy Ernest." One can see by reading it all through what kind of boy Ernest was, and guess something about his mother, too. So, before I send the proof back to the stereotypers, I will copy it here; and I know if any mother has such a little boy, she will like to read it, and find out that her boy is n't the worst boy inthe world. Besides, it is the only authen- tic fragment I have of Ernest Heart's early history. And I believe he will be if he lives, a great man yet, and then you may like to read it, as; a passage in the life of a great man. And for my part, I hope to live to-see tite time, when there will be written and read, the lives of little real, live boys, who don't die before they are ten years old, like most of the boys in Sunday-school books, because they are too good, too solemn, serious, and sedate to live in this sinful, evil, wicked, and perverse world. Besides, I thinka .street, a house, and even a book, is better and brighter if a little boy runs, romps,'plays, and even some- times screams through it. If any one don't want to read about boys, let him skip over to the next chapter, and go on with the thread of the story. But don't think this chapter gives any idea of the real beauty or worth of Ernest Eeart's book, any more than the brick which the Irishman exhibited "as a specimen of a building he had for sale." MY BOY ERNEST. H I HAVE a little five-year-oldster, with nimble feet, active hands, busy brains, big, black, all-seeing eyes, and most inventive fancy. page: 182-183[View Page 182-183] 182 TOGETHER.. If you want your head full, your heart full, your hands full, your house full, just have my boy Ernest for a month, and see how ink his case, all your systematic, scientific, and symmetric rules of ju- venile law and order will work. Convince him practically, that boys 'should be seen and not heard,' and always move quietly about, like good children in story-books, with smooth hair, clean face, and clean apron! 4"Watch and wait on him, through the kite fever, the top fever, the ball fever, and that crisis and consummation of all boyish epidemics, the bonfire fever. "I have thought sometimes, as the ' Ledger' was altogether so popular and wise a journal, I would write and ask its editor, who is so able to answer satisfactorily all puzzling and profo-und ques- tions, what I should do with my boy Ernest, to bring him into that perfect state of discipline, development and decorum, to which his dignified and logical papa thinks it Ws immediate duty and privilege to attain. "I have a nice closet, hung around with sundry bags, one for old rags, one for pieces of silk, velvet, or woollen, choice remnants of costly dresses, carefully saved, to fill any future perforation, made by accident or time in those valuable garments. The culling and arranging of these sundry bundles of divers remnants of dry-goods is the result of a year's care. Yesterday morning I found all the contents of these several bags lying in mighty miscellaneous chaos, on my closet-floor, and all the most showy, attractive pieces of my best dresses were tied together, for the re-tailing of the last penny kite, which kite was just being launched through the open skuttle, -where, on the highest round of the ladder stood Master Ernest, with upturned face, watching, and eagerly looking to see if, with his big ball of cord, he could n't fly his kite up to the sun. As to cord, I have never any more to use; my cord all mysteriously vanishes from my. work-basket. "To-day I went into the kitchen, to get a piece firom some old t half-empty package, my dernier resort, when I overheard Bridget, who has a perfect passion for keeping her kitchen and pantry- floor immaculately clean, scolding away furiously about certain particles of meal, sugar, tea, and rice, scattered all over the floor. "She came in from the grocer's, laid the several bundles on the table, went out a moment to talk with Margaret at the door, and came back to find all the surrounding cord had suddenly and sur- reptitiously disappeared from said packages, while innumerable specimen crumbs, and multitudinous miscellaneous fragments of their liberated contents were sprinkled on the floor. Bridget has quite a pleasant, mild gray eye, but such depredations upon her dominions, such unlawful raids into her territory, were not to be quietly borne. She makes 'big eyes,' as Ernestrcalls them, as she goes about, muttering, as she shakes her head emphatically, 'Well, I declare he is the wprst boy I ever saw.' "Yesterday one of his uncles gave him two shillings as a reward for his unusual and exemplary quietness for a certain specified time. The two shillings went out, and speedily came back in ,- a ball of cord, most as big as hi hhead. The middle of the road, in his estimation, is the best place, the only eligible locality, whence kites can easily, elegantly, and expeditiously ascend. So I keep in a positive and perpetual worry, lest some lumbering wheel, or fast horse may finish forever his kite-flying; while my head must appear ever and anon at door or window, and I screaming at the top of my voice, ' Ernest! Ernest! come out of the road!- there 's a horse, there's a horse coming!' But they say, and I believe it, and so does my husband, that a lady should never be heard screaming: it is unlady-like, improper, inelegant, and entirely opposed to the soft tones of that 'low, sweet voice, which Shakspeare says ' is an excellent thing in woman.' I be- lieve Shakspeare says it, but I am not sure. I have not seen much of Shakspeare since I have had Ernest to watch. Besides, how a woman looks, with her head thrust out'of "a window, like some idle Bridget watching for some passing Patrick! 'My husband says a gentleman's son should always be neatly dressed, - cap, coat, collar, boots, and all. I am quite sure my refined and fastidious neighbors, whose boys always appear newly washed, jacketed, and ruffled, think me an untidy woman; but if they only knew how many clean jackets he has on! "Ernest looks so well in drab and blue, I had a notion of trimming everything with blue for a while; but one day, shortly after he had caught the bonfire fever, as he passed rapidly through the yard, I thought his jacket-pocket had an unusually rotund appearance, and I found afterwards that he had three large raw potatoes, fresh from the barrel's dusty depths, stuffed in his pocket, on his way to a bonfire. The bonfire was made, the, potatoes roasted and eaten, it seemed to me in less than five minutes, and the new drab jacket came in with spots of deeper drab ornamenting its pretty blue trimming. I take so much pains crimping up his little ruffles, his complexion is so clear, and his eyes so bright, I must confess I am rather proud of him, page: 184-185[View Page 184-185] 184 TOGETHER. E whdh he comes fresh from his toilet, with his clean dimity band on his neck; but in half an hour his collar will be tumbled up and stowed away in his little jacket-pocket, under those potatoes, -and there'll be a nice tear on the'knee of those new pants, and I am really ashamed if any one happens to see him and finds out that he is my boy. I overheard a lady say one day, that if she had n't but one boy, she would 'keep him looking cleaner than that.' "I have told Ernest, many a time, he was not old enough to whittle, and so he teases me to measure him every day and see if he has n't grown big enough! This whittling is the height of his future felicity. Dear me! what shall I do when he does whittle! He bothers me for pennies, and the pennies all go for round pops, as he calls those little cakes which the bakers sell four for a penny, and which they call round hearts. His father thinks all these pennies ought to go into the little red savings' bank on my mantel-piece; but Ernest says, he 'can put in and put in, and never- anything comes out.' "I always had a beautiful theoryof government and develop- ement, but my practice varies a little from the statute. When Ernest says his prayers at night, I tell him about the golden rule, and that he must n't strike, throw stoles, or call names; but he says, ' Do you think I'd be such a big fool as not to fire back, if a boy throws a big stone at me?' "I have just been up to my rooom, to wash my hands, and there is all my new frangipane soap, that I use to perfume my note- papers, cut up in pieces and slowly dissolving in the water to make soap-bubbles, and there is my new red shawl spread out on the floor to catch the descending bubbles. Water always would spot that shawl. And there, snugly stowed away on the corner of the bed, is Master Ernest, fast asleep, pipe in hand, and looking so pretty, with rosy cheeks, dimpled chin, and those heavy lashes fringing those veiled eyes, that I can't just now wake him up to scold him this time. "Saturday night, before he went to bed, he. stood looking out of the window, at the stars, when he said, all at once, ' Mamma, what makes the stars bob around so? Is God pinching them?' "' Wednesday morning. -They say there is rno use in always watching children; throw them upon their own resources, (I have always found Ernest's resources vast enough, alrmost exhaustless,) but this morning I am going to write a letter and leave him to do as he chooses. But I hear him speaking pretty loud out-doors; so I'll just peep through the shutters and see what he is about. Well, sure as I live, he has his father's hat and boots and his grandmother's spectacles on! He is standing at the foot of the piazza-steps, on the top of an old box, preaching a sermon to the cat, who sits demurely on the piazza, looking down at the speaker! . "' Now, Pussy,' he says, 'you ought to be good and thankful, for God has given you so many nice things. Don't you see, Pussy, this green grass and this beautiful sky; all these things God made, and you have good food to eat.' So he went on, beginning with Adam, and mentioning most of the worthies spoken of in the Catechism. Occasionally he would get down from the box and walk up to puss, who was sleepily closing her eyes; and pulling both her ears, emphatically exclaim, ' Wake up, Puss! wake up! don't you know you must n't sleep in church!' He ended his practical discourse by saying, that' day after yesterday there would be preaching in this house again.' I could n't help thinking if all the sleepy hearers in our fashionable churches had their ears pulled occasionally, by clerical fingers, there would be more wide-awakes in church and state. But here he comes, with some paper, for me to make some cat-stairs and fly-boxes. His father says, about six times a week, 'You have no control over that boy.', His aunt Hattie says, if she had a boy, she guesses he 'd mind better. And I don't wonder, for last Monday he made a clothes-line with some of his cord, fastening one end to her door-knob, .opened one of her drawers, and taking out her new collars, cuffs, and under-sleeves, dipped them all in the water-pitcher, with the pink ribbon puffs, bows and all, and hung them upon the line to dry, so that by the time his aunt Hattie appeared, he had quite a washing out. "Bridget insists upon it, he is the worst boy in the world, but his kind grandma says, ' He will make a very good or a very bad man.'- "But what's to be done with these boys? I' don't see any place for them. They are always in the way: at concerts, or on the side-walks, in processions, in cars, in stages. If there 's any corner which one's bundle can fill, it will do for a boy. Is there ever any good'place for a boy? A girl is curled and caressed -from rosy infancy until graceful womanhood; but a boy is only a boy, a kind of bother to everybody but his mother; and she thinks sometimes,- '.There 's no living with or without the boy, He's her constant sorrow and her constant joy.' page: 186-187[View Page 186-187] 186 TOGETHER. "' Ernest's uncle Nat says he may get to be a pious, moral, ex. emplary man yet. EIe goes to the infant Sunday-school now. He says, in two more weeks he is going up into the ' top Sun- day-school.' "Maybe he 'll improve. Bridget says,'there's room."' "This book has domed my being like a sky." It is written well, and it shall be printed well, announced well, bound well, reviewed well: it shall sell well. Thousands shall buy, and hundreds of thousands shall read it. Its wise thoughts shall make each soul wiser, its good thoughts shall make each soul better. The echo of its words shall never, never die! I am only a woman; yet but for me its great thoughts would have been dead born. I, a woman, whose usual destiny is to look well, appear well, dress well, marry well, live well, and die with the waves of life closing over her, and on the great human sea no ripples left to mark the spot i But I have planted in the world these good, great thoughts. They will grow forever. To plant a thought is to be one of God's gardeners,--to make bouquets for souls! I can almost worship a tree. Palaces and paradises of art perish around it, brick crumbles, wood decays, stone falls; but the tree lives on, grows on! Who rashy cuts it down murders a precious life. So I reverence these willow souls, and oak souls, and cedar souls, who spread out for us fresh, beautiful, ever- green thoughts, - beauty for cold ashes, and shade for burning sorrow! Without them what a famine of soul,! what a hunger of heart! How hungry and weary we would be, when tired of earth's brick and mortar, that perish with the using! How beautifully over the old rent roofs of dilapidated hopes, does Thought twine her morning-glories, blue with- heavenly dawn, and purple with ethereal light! Let the most regal king bow before mighty Thought, If God give it not to' him, absolute despot as he is, his embattled hosts cannot conquer or win for him, to stand sentry in his poor soul, one imperial thought! They cannot gather for him the angel- food of soul, before which his sumptuous banquets are but un- leavened bread, hard and tasteless. CHAPTER XXIV. tHTHERTO AND HEREAFTER. THE book has come. Some one has wrapped it up in a news- paper. The date of the paper is June 1st, 1861. As I untie the bundle, something on the front side of the newspaper arrests my attention. It is an article, headed 1"Hitherto and Hereafter." It has Ernest Heart's signature. Befobre I look at the book, I read the article as eagerly as I always do everything of his. It is an old paper, and themarticle was written some time since. I read it aloud, as I always do everything of his. If there 's any young girl who wonders how I can like to read anything so essayistical, so dry, I like to ask her if it were written by some young gentleman whom she particularly liked, if she would n't read every word of it, even if it were twice as long and three times more sober. "HTHERTO AND HEREAFTER. A "No life is ever full, complete, sublime, until it has endured its great sorrow. Its strength is unknown, its devotion untested, its powers unmeasured. It must accomplish some strength-tasking deed, Struggle through some heart-aching trial; it must watch the slow waning of some great, longing hope, ere it culminate a full- orbed, glorious soul. "Closer we clasp, fonder we press, infinitely higher we prize the heart, toil-worn, grief-worn, and war-worn, that hath thus endured, struggled, and conquered. -We will never fully trust or freely confide in the physician who counts our heart-beats, and guards our life-tide, till he has long and often baffled disease, con- quered fever, and waited and watched by death-beds. So may we more fondly trust, more proudly boast, when in the great heart of this nation this treason shall have burned out. It may be the body politic will be haler and healthier, more world- renowned and danger-proof than ever. The ship of State, after this creaking and groaning and straining of its cords, this whistling of lawless winds through its masts,'this dashing of rebellious waves against its sides, may more gallantly and gayly page: 188-189[View Page 188-189] 188 . TOGETHER. ride than ever, and rest after this wild deluge on some surer Ararat of safety, and we from Freedom's ark go forth once. more to pluck again our olive-leaves. We will overturn the tables of mercenary money-changers, and cast out them that sell, not innocent doves, but immortal men, as we repair and re-adorn the neglected temple of Liberty, but yesterday a den of treacherous thieves, till brighter sun shall shine on base and battlement, frieze and entablature, more solid and symmetrical, grand and glorious, goodly and gorgeous than ever! "If needs be, a wall of human hearts and a river of human blood shall force back and close in this insolent march of slavery, while with burnished steel and glittering bayonets, and fearless trust in Freedom's God, we plant our moveless Hitherto, and say to Treason's rushing tide; ' Thus tfar shalt thou go and no farther, and here shall thy proud waves be stayed.' In our money-getting, :self-absorbing, metropolis, no one tie has linked the common soul, no one aim purposed the universal life, no kindred feeling stirred the common heart, no grand hirgh way marshalled the masses, or -rallied the one brotherhood to drill with even step or friendly march. ,' Bitter and hostile political creeds have coolly defended or' rashy blamed the common Constitution, and myriad faiths have sprung from one common Bible. Each leading mind hath cast its pebble-thought 'into the stream of life, and gathered to itself its own narrow-circle of views, till in the wide sea of humanity there seemed no deep and stately onflowinog of the great national tide. "The structure of society upon'whllich we have so long falsely based our ideas of ethics and aesthetics, has been like the strata of the earth, so variously bent, undulated, and fractured, some are horizontally wrong, and others perpendicularly right; and all intermediate degrees of inclination are met with. "As we find in the hidden archives of our eapth's interior are imprisoned fires, which some touch may yet probe and upkindle, evoking perhaps at last, from the consuming and destroying flames, 'the new Heaven and new Earth wherein dwelleth righteousness;' so something has at last wakened the archives of the Soul's interior, and probed the distinct and varied strata of the common heart, and kindled those quenchless fires now lighting every eye, burning on every lip, till we all, matrons and maidens, sires and sons, have the war-cry on our tongues, the war-fever burning at our hearts! It will burn till a new. political heaven, TOGETHER. 189 clear and bright, domes over our whole Union, and a new and firmer earth echoes the joyous tread of-undaunted and; unfet- tered millions, waving high their starry banner, in pine-clad forest, over balmy orange-groves, under green maple and hardy oak! That banner, whose folds festo6ned our cradles, made peaceful our bridals, hallowed our loved-ones' graves, now so long torn and trampled, that some of its early stars, like lost pleiads, are seen no more! The constellation of our Union is in disorder, as when Phaeiton, intrusted with the care of one of the temples of Venus, rash youth, took from the hands of the gods the bright chariot of the sun to guide for a day, disturbed by his rashness the harmony of spheres, and threatened heaven and earth with a universal conflagration; so he who, intrusted with the care of even a part of our national, temple, would seize and dare to steer the chariot of State out of its honored and harmoni- ous track, deserves, like Phaeton, to be hurled headlong from our political sky, by some fierce thunderbolt, into the blackness of darkness of oblivion forever! "' Shot from the chariot, like a falling star That in a summer evening from the top Of Heaven drops down, or seems at least to drop, Till on the Po his blasted corpse was hurled, Far from his country in the western world.' "Treason, treachery and tomahawk, poison, plunder and prey, are these the imperious and urbane chivalry, with sardonic smile, challenging to barbaric combat our loyal and loftiest souls? "These have waylaid our gallant living. These have martyred our gallant dead. He, the arch-traitor, reared beneath our friend- ly sky, has, like Lucifer, left the Heaven of right, he might have shone and sunned in, and like Lucifer he would drag the confed- erate hosts of Heaven after him,- "' And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.' "As for us, as we clasp our banner, we are all a part of one vast Legion of Honor. If we lie down to die with this armor on, we may pitch our white tents on the banks of the river of life, and enter the gates of pearl with no parole to break, no fealty to forswear, no flag to furl, and no wish to secede from that grander Union in the great republic of stars above." page: 190-191[View Page 190-191] j19 d( TOGETHER. CHAPTER XXV. MARAH. He that handleth a matter wisely shall find good. - PSALMS xvi. 20. I was not in safety, neither had I rest, neither was I quiet, yet trouble came. -JOBi iii. 26. THE book is here, clear-typed, on soft, fine paper. There's not a mistake in it, not one choice word, which, like bits of tlought- mosaic, are set all through the eloquent pages, in every kind of unique, ornate, and elegant sentence;, not one choice word is clipped, marred or maimed by careless type-setter: it is all here. It has a clear, plain, sensible type. As you turn over each leaf, - you don't strain your eyes as through a dim veil to read fhe thoughts. Dull eyes and lame eyes, weak eyes and tired eyes, young eyes and old eyes can read them without effort, with ease and pleasure. The story does not look as if boiled-down all to nothing. It meets your eye and heart half-way, with a God-bless you Saxon greeting. The thoughts, bold and plain, like an im- perial photograph, challenge your eye as you turn each leaf. There is something in the look of a thought. The poet's sad- dest "In Memoriam," or sweetest "Psalm of Life," touch the heart quicker and haunt the memory longer if borne to us in a clear, open, unveiled face. In that little, fine, condensed, contracted type, thought is often half choked, or drowned, or starved r Thoughts doomed thus to struggle, often fall still-born in the thought-world, ana golden-winged words too often never rise, or breathe, or oar, or sing. [ One honest dandelion, or ingenuous rose, does more good in I the world than a thousand tiny blossoms, dimly seen through a microscope. Let thoughts twinkle out on the page, like stars in the sky, or daisies in the grass,-- not struggle through dim, feeble x letters, like half-worn inscriptions on a tomb. But they were so long shaving off those plates! It takes ninety- six years to get a book stereotyped, and I suppose about a hun- drq to get it printed. They turned my vignettes into rosettes, TOGETHER. 191 my centres into craters, my eternity into a turtle, my raise-up into chaw-up; they made French out of my German, and Ger- man out of my French, till I can't tell what new dialect is the typographical resume. But it is all right at last, only one word in X a line of poetry they've left out, the prettiest word in the line, that gave the expression no other word could, and leaving it out makes the whole verse nonsense. I should think "'Josiah January " would call it a " platitude." Every line, shade, and expression of thought is perfectly daguerreotyped; and on the back of the cover is, not one of those geometrical figures, in which the title is so often set, like a bird in a cage of wire, but such a pretty little characteristic, artistic device, so like the title, so like the author. I like the outside, I like the inside; and how well it reads! Here is plot, power, pathos. Such a trinity, rich, rare, royal, shall win fame, fortune, friends ; man will talk about it, age praise it, maiden will weave around it her chaplet of loves, and dreams, and tears. It shall be read once for its plot, twice for its power, and many times afterwards for its marvelous, moving, mighty pathos; and the reviews, (there are more than a hundred of them), they call it strange, startling, striking, wonderful, powerful, clear, vivid, natural, pleasing, enter- taining, eloquent, exciting; they lavish, with impartial, irresistible hand, the whole world of admiring adjectives upon it. There 's one paper called the "American Autocrat." "This great National Paper," as their advertisement says, "is every- where recognized as the leading journal of the land for literary and art news, and for free and impartial criticism." "It boasts always of something for the family, for the professional man, for the soldier, for the merchant, for the student, and for every good citizen." One of its reviewers says, "It is dignified, calm, and temperate." So I have bought every number of the "Autocrat " so far. Here comes the last number. I suppose there will be some notice in it of "Aureola." As most good critics praise the book, this paper, so celebrated for free and impartial criticism, will surely be candid. I turn over the paper to the literary notices. I know the publisher of "Aureola " does n't advertise in the "Autocrat;" but of course that can't affect their "free, impartial criticism." The review, from beginning to end, is personal, malicious, in- sulting. A part of it sounds as if written by some spunky school- girl, trying to pay 'back some secret grudge. The other part as if the poison of asps were in the writer's heart and pen. I judge true criticism to be a candid exposure of faults, and a frank page: 192-193[View Page 192-193] 192 TOGETHER. allowance of merits. I wonder that a paper, of its lofty preten. sions and aims, should allow such an article to deface and dis. grace its columns. Bird of ill-omen as I am, I prophesy that in a few short weeks, this "American Autocrat " shall fail and fade and die out of the literary sky, and its boasted elevation, independence, and intellec- tuality be forever forgotten. I think I know who wrote the article, and why. I pity him for the contemptible motive that inspired him. May he be able to keep that corner in life's stage-coach, where, uneasy himself; he may be still as able as he is willing to elbow his neighbor and make him uneasy. The review is a stab at an Ernest Heart, who may yet, when he shall " stand on the top of his strength," rise far above this great "American Autocrat." Such blows may crush now, but they shall crown at last. Ernest Heart wrote something, some time ago, which he called "Palimpsest," and-- on the title-paoge of' Aureola," under the title is printed, "By the author of ' Palimpsest.'"And one of the papers, I think it is the "Boston Transcript," says, "We never read ' Palimpsest,' and we don't think we shall ever read ' Aure- ola.' We presume it was written merely to complete the list of books for the season." This review is so overwhelmingly discriminating Of course, if I had written the book myself,;I never should dare touch pen again. I should seek hereafter my only consolation and occupa. tion in the most secret corners of woman's proper, quiet sphere of domesticity. Just think of it! the man only saw the cover of the book, and was so intimidated and repulsed by its stupidity and worthless- ness, that he thought he never should read it! What a clair- voyant vision his! What a lucid transparency of judgment! Blessed and awed with such candid, comprehensive criticism, the young, aspiring authors in this country may yet " rise to heights true critics dare not mend." One more review says: "The book is evidently written by a woman. It is a pity that every woman nowadays thinks it her duty to write a book before she dies." This is killing and unan- swerable! When such men speak louder than Jupiter at Dodona, Apollo at Delphi, or Trophonius near Lebadera, at their voices, so unanswerable, unambiguous, incontrovertible, frightened woman should ever after bold her peace, and let no yet unborn dog, through future centuries, dare to bark! But Ihave reviewed the book, and I believe it was written by an earnest heart, who prayed and starved and wept over it. I know God helped him to write it. There breathes all through its leaves the delicious aroma of sweetest soul-flowers, still wet with the dew of tears! I'm sure I've cried enough over it almost to drown it. Here is a Philadelphia paper, which says, "The one who is im- bued with a deep reverence for works of genius, and worships the beautiful in nature and art, will find this to be a tale after his: own heart." It speaks also of its "jewels of thought," &c. I am sure I never shall write a book myself. If one word or sentence or thought were incorrect, or even any little mistake in the print, I should worry over it all my life. And then I should always know there was an ever-so-much better book in my head than ever could come out of it. I shall wait till some one in- vents some daguerreotype to catch and copy thought, or some spiritual Claude Lorraine-glass, to mirror faithfully all the leaves and flowers of the soul, to catch the glow, without any pen to dull and deaden and drive back the free thought. And then I am so sensitive, the reviews would throw me into a spiritual fever one day, and a deadly chill the next. I believe I should die in a month, going through half the excitement of getting a book finished and out, waiting and watching to see if my thought-craft would sink or swim, and safely cross at last Fame's wide, turbu- ( lent Atlantic. But if there is but one good thought in Aureola," to make any- body wiser or happier, I am glad I had it published. I feel as if I had been cup-bearer for this prince of thought; for my hand brushed aside the dense eclipsing cloud, and let this star shine out. I have been an ambassador from the court of genius; the little forerunner of this great, glorious soul, the latchet of whose spiritual shoes I am unworthy to unloose. I am impatient to see the crown on the head of Fame's heir-apparent. I would rather have such a crown on my head, than to have piled up on my brow the coronet of Prince, Duke, Marquis, Earl, Viscount, and Baron; for 't is the soul's crown; it lays it not down as it passes under Death's narrow gate, and joins the triumphant band of the immortals! You can see its pearls gleam out in the blue dome of the great eternity to come,- when crowns regal lie for. gotten on the pillow of dead royalty! Yes, that Ernest Heart is waiting for his crown! How long must the crown lie here for him? He has achieved a bloodless, glorious victory in ths great page: 194-195[View Page 194-195] 194 TOGETHER. field of thought. If he were only here, to hold his own book open in his hands,- that book consigned by him to the hopeless oblivion of ill-starred thoughts. Yes, the crown is ready for him to come and claim his birth- right. I am so happy over it, I cin't sit still; but I walk back and forth, clapping my hands and singing, - "Now is the time, ye suin and stars, When ye raise my soul from mortal bars, And bear it through Heaven in your golden cars. "Every flower is a lover of mine, Every star is afriend divine; For me they blossom! for me they shine." As I sing, with the book in my hand, the door opens, - this time without any knocking; and here is the paper. The' guns have been going all the morning; boys scream "Extras! extras!" under my windows. I heard yesterday that the regiment Ernest Heart was in was not on any battle-field, - only doing garrison-duty, or guarding some fort. So I read the news with calmness. The boys shout under my window, "Great victory - Great Union vic- tory -- 'Herald' extra -' Times,' weekly -'Tribune'!"And the despatch of the 13th reads, -"God has crowned our arms with another brilliant success. The Union loss in the battle is only about a thousand killed, - the rebels nearly twice that number." The despatch ends with this,--"No Union flag or gun lost."' Only a thousand Union men killed! I say. A thousand brave souls have answered the roll-call of eternity! a thousand lonely, shadowed hearthstones wait and watch no longer the glad com- ing of their best-beloved! a thousand hearth-lights are out! a thousand household fires grow dim, for the thousand closed eyes, sealed lips, hushed hearts they 'll greet no more! Will this " no single Union flag or gun lost " be the only glad refrain to hush the burden, the ceaseless dirge of thousand wailing voices? Oh! Union flag and gun unlost, so glorified, ye cannot cover or hide the noble six hundred fallen for thee! "Two years of time have never fled With arms so full of sacred dead; "Nor borne to yon celestial goals, More holy and heroic souls. "Some crowned with fame, the immortal brave, Sleep in the flag they died to save. TOGETHER. 195 "O Earth, ma mere, with tender pain, Fold to thy heart our holy slain. "We love. With grief our tears are spent; Our homes are dark from whence they went. " flag, beloved in better years, O flag, baptized in blood and tears, "O flag, more sacred for your cost, We love you dearer for our lost!" "Victory, great victory!" shout the boys again under the window. Oh, victory! laurel-wreathed and radiant-crowned, golden- robed and rainbow-winged, flashing-eyed, roseate-hued and elo- quent-tongued, wave thy green palm-branches before thee! Be- fore thee are fair morning-glories, forget-me-nots, daisies, crowns imperial, and regal fleurs-de-lis! Beneath thy trailing, golden robe there 's an iron hoof, and behind thee no green thingr lives, save weeping-willow, crushed heart's-ease, mourning-bride, wid- ow's-tear, and love-lies-bleeding! The flags are flying from almost every window. There 's to be a grand illumination to-night, till the streets shall look like a sea of stars. Annie Arlington, with little Blanche Page, is just crossing the street. Annie is in deep mourning for her father and child. General Arlington was killed in the battle of the lath. While mounting the third time a parapet and planting a flag, a volley from the guns at short range killed one hundred and seventy, who fell in a space one hundred feet by four, and amonng them the brave and daring General. Annie walks slowly, like an in- valid. So under all this flood-tide of joy there is a treacherous under-current, bearing brave men away in its deep, dark waters to their hidden graves! How do I dare be happy, I say, when so many hearts sit "dumb before the shadow of their great affliction?" Why is it, that when the cathedral-soul rings out its chimes of joy, clear, sweet, and jubilant, and from every spire and turret of the hearts little starry flags wave, as emotion sings out its soft, sweet refrain, and the joy-bells chime on for some great hope's glad bifthday - why so often, close to a great joy's triumph-march, comes the iron tread of a wailing sorrow? The chime dies away into a dirge, the lights are out, Emotion weeps in her new sackcloth. I sit with the book in my hand; it only came this .morning. I page: 196-197[View Page 196-197] 1:96 TOGETHER. am happy, with this one great wish fulfilled. I forget all about the flags and victories, as I open- it and read one of its sunniest chapters aloud; and I long so intently to put the book in the author's hands. He will return soon, they say; but the days will be so long till then. How proud and happy I can make him feel, as I put in his room, on his table, his own book; and he'll come in and find it there. Nelly Harwed comes in, and brings me a little bunch of love- lies-bleeding. I take the flowers. I wish.,she had brought me something else. She gives me another paper; 't is an extra. I open it and read the news aloud. She pulls my dress as I read about "twice the number of rebels killed," and says, "Miss Louise, Miss Louise, have n't the rebels got any moder?"I say, "Yes, yes, child," in an absent way, for I am looking over the list of "killed." In one corner of the paper I read some familiar names; but the last name is, - "Private Ernest Heart, killed!" The paper drops on the floor, the book falls upon it, and the little half-withered bunch of love-lies-bleeding lies on the open leaves of the book; and I fall fainting, - the first time in my life. 'T is to-morrow. I am up again, but there is a veil over sun and moon and stars, and blue sky and flowers, and a deeper pall over my heart. What will I do with the book now? Lay it away from my sight. Will the time ever come when I can read it without tears? I don't read the-words "With long life will I satisfy him " any more. I have taken down that triumphal arch over the gate of my heart, and only a Greenwood bell tolls there; and I can see over the gateway no beautiful resurrection figures and no resurrection words written under them. No! all I caA see now is a grave where are buried together friends and foes, " in one red burial blent," --one deep, unnamed grave If he could have died here, and I could have lain him on some sun- sat hill, or near the sylvan lake, where birds come and sing and flowers bloom, and love watches tenderly opening bud and flower; where willows wave! But no -in "one red burial blent," I Say, over and over. Leave me alone with my dead, ye who have never mourned a lost love, a broken hope. I want no sympathy from happy hearts. This" hope was the one little flower of my heart; but the "wind passeth over it, and it is gone." TOGETHER. 197 "'T is falsely said That there was ever intercourse Between the living and the dead; For surely then I should have sight Of him I wait for, day and night, With love and longing infinite!" The door of the room adjoining mine is open, and I hear a man's voice reading, - "No Lotus-flowers shall ever bind thy brow, And with a soothing influence fold thy thought B From weariness like this to-day hath brought! Cry not, look not, for rest; Cry thou no more for rest." And I say, "There 'll be no more rest for me here." page: 198-199[View Page 198-199] 1ao5 TOGETHER. CHAPTER XXVI. THE SMLE-WREATII, OR MUCH ADO ABOUT ORANGES. Neither turn thy face from any poor, and the face of God shall not be turned away from thee.-- TOBIT. You don't know me, reader! You 've never seen my face, or grasped my hand; my griefs are of little moment to you. It would be intrusive, imprudent,indiscreet for me to offer you a long chapter of my sorrows. It would seem to you one dull, dire monotone. So, as you put away your lost child's little shoes and embroidered robe,--the first little -brown shoes, the first little red dress she ever wore---. (you would n't part with them for anything,) you go away alone, and look in the little drawer where they lie, and weep there; but you never put them in the guest-chamber, never leave them in the parlor that you keep arrayed and furnished for strangers' reception. So in Memory's old cedar-chest I shall lay away, and lock up, young Love's earliest embroidered robe, and Joy's first fairy slippers, where no oblivion moth stealthily enters and silently consumes or gradually destroys the durable substance and costly texture of Joy's faded, folded child-robe. Nights, when you are asleep, I may bend over the old chest; but you won't see the tears fall or hear the lonely sob. If you have, like me, laid away within Memory's locked chest the rent robe which young Love used to wear, God help you! I pity you. Oh dear! I wish I could smile again, I say, as I sit by my- self and think the same weary thoughts over and over. It is a lovely day in winter; the sun shines in on my helio- trope, and lingers lovingly on the young ivy T am trying to train up the fiame. How the sunshine used to light up my whole heart, as it streamed through my window; but I can't smile with the sunshine nov. I have n't smiled for many weeks. I My lips of late have. only learned to quiver; and I am quite brave if I' can kee'p the tears back in the deep, deep well -of my heart. But there 's a grief-spring there nothing can check or still. TOGETHER. 199 I look at the open heliotrope turning its mild blue eyes up to the sun. Everything in my room lights up, even to the white and crimson and scarlet roses in my carpet. "IYou can't smile," says the sunshine, wreathing around me its light, till my whole face is illumined. I move out of it, but it follows me, that irresistible sunshine; it flashes up at last over . my mantle, and gathers and glimmers its radiant aureola round my long-neglected, forgotten ("Whatsoever." My vivid, excited imagination perhaps sees a saintly, a martyr-like halo around the word. I have n't looked at it for a long time. Weeks have moved on; but my heart, will, brain, energy have all stood still on Memory's bleak, cold cliff, looking back after that ship that has sailed away out of my sighlt, and will never come back more. A voice seems to come from out that still, enhaloed "Whatsoever," as if whispered from an ascended Ernest Heart: "Do with thy might what thy hand finds to do, for there is no work, or know- ledge, or device in the grave whither thou goest. If your joy is n't crowned, your young hope is bu,.ied: why do you sit here all the day idle?" says a voice, thrilling like a clarion, waking like a trumpet dead life to action. "If he could give his life for his poor suffering country, can't you have a little courage and heart for something?" "Finish thy work, the time is short; The sun is in the west; The night is coming on -till then Think not of rest. "Yes, finish all thy work, then rest; Till then, rest never; the rest prepared for thee by God 0 - Is rest forever." Work, work, I say. Well, what shall I work at? I 've no'chil- dren to clothe, no brother to sew for, no mother to help, no bread to earn. Oh, how the wind blows outside! It has blown in my window, and upset everything upon my table i There goes a book on the floor! it lies open at my feet; itris Carlyle's "Past and Present." I take it up, and look to see to what passage the wind has open- ed. It is this: '"The latest gospel in this world is work. Know thy work and do it; know what thou canst work at, and work at it like a Hercules. Blessed is he who has found his work; let him ask no other blessedness. He has a work and a life-purpose; page: 200-201[View Page 200-201] 200 TOGETHER. he has found it and will follow it. Every noble work is at first impossible. In very truth for every noble work the possibilities lie diffusedd through immensity, inarticulate, undiscoverable, except to faith. Like Gideon, thou shalt spread out thy fleece, at the door of thy tent, and see whether under the wide arch of Heaven there be any bounteous moisture, or none. Thy heart and life- purpose shall be as a miraculous Gideon-fleece, spread out in silent appeal to Heaven; and from the kind Immensities, what from the poor unkind Localities and town and country parishes there never could, blessed dew-moisture to suffice thee shall have fallen." "All true work is sacred. In all true work, were it but hand- craft, there is something of divineness. "Labor, wide as the earth, has its summit in Heaven. Sweat of the brow, and up from that, to sweat of the brain, sweat of the heart, which includes all Kepler calculations, Newton meditations, all sciences, all spoken epics, all acted heroisms and martyrdoms, up to that bloody sweat, which men have called divine. " 0 brother, if this is not worship, the more pity for worship, for this is the noblest thing under God's sky." ' Look up, my wearied brother; see thy fellow-workman there in God's eternity, surviving there, they alone surviving, sacred band of the immortals, celestial body-guard of the empire of mankind, peopling they alone the/nmeasured Solitudes of time." The effect is electrical. I amp thrilled- stirred - waked - and still the voice seems to speak on: You sit there looking back ,on that grave; you shall grow gloomier, moodier. No soul grows that4 looks forever back. Your heliotrope and ivy would soon die, if they turned from the sunshine and air, and struggled back -to the deep, damp, dark earth, to clasp again the withered roots of some dead sister ivy or kindred buried heliotrope. Oh! I say, drearily, I :wish there was some frame my heart could climb up and twine around, like that climbing, clinging, clasping ivy. But each leaf, as it raises its frail head, seems to whisper back to me its little green gospel, -"Forgetting the things that are behind, we press forward." I am suddenly seized with a great horror at the thought that I am good for nothing to anybody. I open my Browning, which has been lying unopened in my lap all the morning. I open to the page where are these lines:- "For though as powerless, said I, as a stone, Atstone can still give shelter to a worm. And it is worth while being a stone for that." TOGETHER. 201 I turn the leaves over and I come to this:- "And I smile to think God's greatness Flows around our incompleteness, Round our restlessness His rest.". There 's a knock at the door.- I open it, saying over to myself the sweet words, "Round our restlessness His rest." There's just that eternal, circling girdle of love, girdling round and folding us in its peaceful embrace. Mary has come. She says, looking at me steadily and seriously, "Come out into the sunshine, Louise; don't sit all day moping by that grate. Come," and she really puts on my bonnet, cloak, and furs; and we start to go over and make a call on a bride, a mutual friend of ours, stopping two days at the St. Nicholas. We :- ride down, cross the ferry, when three of Mary's Boston cousins alight from a carriage at the ferry. They 've come to stay until Wednesday with Mary. She urges me to go back with them and take tea. But taking tea out with strangers is the hardest possi- ble thing to do comfortably and gracefully, when one's soul is out of tune; so I go on alone. I don't feel like congratulating happy brides. I hear a man beside me singing out, 1"Fine large oranges and lemons." I buy a lot of his oranges, and two baskets at the market, to put them-in. The baskets are filled with oranges, then sent on behind me. I walk on, first stopping at an India- rubber store and making another purchase, to be sent on after me. I pass on up Beekman Street, into Baxter, and so arrive at last into that centre of grim attraction, where five lanes of poverty meet. I pass up the steps of that asylum for young and helpless Five Pointers, at just quarter past twelve. I enter the room where nearly two hundred girls are dining. A little pint basin of coffee is before each child, and beside it a generous slice of bread. The bread is dipped in the coffee repeatedly by little wan hands. When the simple repast is nearly finished, the coffee swallowed, the bread almost demolished, I pass quietly along behind each one, and drop down beside each little basin a large, luscious Havana orange! As the young eye sees the unexpected treas- ure, it lights up; and only such a smile as childhood can give, such a warm, radiant smile, - the prettiest, most musical, delicious ( Thank you," I ever heard or saw, glows in those little faces. As I greet those two hundred smiles, I think it is the prettiest wreath of sunshine my soul can wear all day; and Ibegin to smile. So the little vine you plant by your neighbor's fence may climb page: 202-203[View Page 202-203] 202 TOGETHER. up at last, and over your walls, greet you with its delicious clusters. I started out, wishing for smiles ; but I could n't buy them all up and down Broadway. Nobody has them to sell. A child's happiness is so pure and perfect, while it lasts! Who would think within the round walls of an orange there could hide so much of happiness! The orange, golden and round, hides all the child's shadowed past, and obscures the gloomy future. The child's world just then is all orange. The circumference of that little yellow world hides from childish eyes the sharp cliffs of the dark to-come, the bitter griefs left behind. Oh, I say, if I could only be Poverty's child, eating Charity's orange, till memory and fear both are forgotten. The girls pass out into the hall, and the shadow of that smile is on their faces yet. It lingers like a sweet, mute echo, playing its hushed music across their lips, and around my heart. The boys come in, in their coats: of many colors, and stand be- side their little basins. When their repast is nearly finished, I slip behind each boy and put a real, live India-rubber ball, as the boys say, one that will soar and roll and bounce, down beside each basin; and the boy smiles, as he measures with a boy's uner- ring, critical eye, the ball's worth, and the ball's capacity. I see the two hundred smiles on -the boys' faces, till there 's a row of soul-sunshine up and down those long tables. The boys' world is circled, filled, spanned, domed, bounded, brightened, charmed, changed by that one round ball, - the first ball many a little fellow there ever owned. A girl may smile because she likes to, because she ought to; but a boy won't smile unless he feels like it; and when a bright- eyed, rosy-cheeked boy smiles, it is as if a ray of sunshine had stopped a moment to rest on its long journey fi'om heaven. There 's no humbug in a boy's smile ; it comes right out of the heart. As the boy goes- out to play on those mountains of dirt yonder, that picturesque, unique play-ground, the little brown ball will span for him the whole mid-winter sky with a- warm, bright rainbow. One little dose of surprise, an unexpected gift, - - how much itcheers up; how much it scatters the gloom of Poverty's child! If I were an artist, I would paint Surprise, as Poverty's dream, Poverty's angel. A boy that has no ball has always a big vacant place in his heart unfilled. If I could only get the money, I say, as I stand a moment at the door and watch the two hundred balls, rolling and bounding amid the noisy con- gratulations of two hundred throats, - (it is the greatest ball-play I t TOGETHER. 203 ever saw.) I say, if I have the money next New Year, I will have, beside each-little girl's basin a doll, completely dressed, with hat, cloak, shoes, stockings, and all, --a treasure no drunken father can pawn, or unnatural mother misappropriate. I would endow the great cathedral of each ch!ld's soul with this little image, - fair, tiny, artistic, of a doll, patent-headed, crash, and fall, and thump, and bump proof, - nothing shall crack or break it, - a doll that shall last, unmarred, unmnutilated, undilapidated, for a whole year, thanks to illustrious, immortal Greiner, childhood's comfort and good-genius;- last a year, with no growing old to its features, no emaciation, no decay, - only perhaps, a little less ro- tundity and symmetry of nose! Poor nose! In dolly's little life it will grow less rotund and fair, less Grecian and more retrousse, or more decidedly Roman, with an actual, visible bump, after the lapse of childhood's plots and ravages! A little girl is so desolate, destitute, disheartened, without a doll! ("No one to love, no doll to caress," she roameth alone through child's wilderness, and she looks so wistfully every day at the few meagre, plainly dressed, plebeian dolls in the show-windows of Baxter Street, with their single, pinked-out, scant cambric skirt and sleeveless arms. How she wishes she could have one clasp of the little maiden's kid finders in her little wall hand. She gazes at it, until its cheek looks so rosy, and its blue eyes so bright, it is her type of beauty and perfection. But an impassable glass is between her and it. Alas, in 'her pocketless, seamless garment, there are no holiday pennies, no latent, lurking silver or copper, to cross the palm of Destiny, and win the treasure. Still the child looks through the glass so wistfully, she would keep it so warm, nurse it so tender- ly, if she only had it; and at last she can hardly see its little bright face through the dusty glass, with her yearning eyes, filled with misty, gathering tears. There are longings ideal, longings aesthetic, longings of head, and longings of heart; but is there any longing more intense or real than Poverty's child longing for that inaccessible, unapproachable doll? Poor, unappeased, hungry little heart! It must go back to Poverty's den in the cellar; and with subdued resignation she takes her dingy bit of dilapidated shawl, folds it diagonally, rolls it up, making a queer-- little bunch for a head, fastens its imagi- nary neck-folds with a crooked pin, patiently searched for on that lonely cellar's dirty floor. She calls it dolly, baptizing its little head with the tears just shed over the inaccessible dolly in the page: 204-205[View Page 204-205] 204, TOGETHER. window .baptizing it Jane. She goes out again, for the cellar is lonely and dark; she sits down on December's cold stone, and, swaying from side to side her half-clad limbs, rocks Jane to sleep with the familiar strains of "By-low baby Bunting." Right in front of the Liliputian mother, anong a group of red and yellow draped figures, standing there for sale, is a picture of the "Sac]red Heart of Jesus." There is a large red heart, with its drops of falling blood, flames of fire above it, and in the encircling arch of flame a cross arising out of the heart. As the child sings to her dolly, she looks up at the picture. I wonder what those little blue eyes think of the heart, and the cross, and the flame, and the meek face above it. I see no beauty in the picture, with its flaming red and yellow staring robe; but as I look at it and then at the forlorn child, I think, oh, Sacred Heart of J6sus! Poverty's lonely lowly, desolate home is a fit place for thy tears and cross and flame! a fit place for that sorrowing, bleeding, sacred heart! Nothing but Poverty's single, shivering rag is wrapt round those little shivering limbs, as :she keeps on singing to that imaginary, ideal aesthetic Jane, "By-low baby Bunting." She is like many a human mother, who gathers Love's hidden beauty, its invisible, precious charm, around her plainest, least-attractive child. I think of the last will and testament of millionaires, whose mortal feet are never soiled with Poverty's dust, whose eyes never weep for Poverty's tears. A little first will and testament be- queathed now to Poverty's forlorn childhood, might rear in child- hearts a temple goodlier and grander than yonder huge, massive pile of freestone, reared in memoriam, when millionaires' ashes are hidden in marble-guarded tomb. I 'd like to read the in memo- riam in young bright eyes, and young happy smiles, carved where the sacred heart of Jesus so loved to roam, among life's little, unblessed children. To-day's will and testament waits not self- ishy, while weary, unhelped hearts ache on. I go on up Baxter Street, the Broadway of the Five Points. There's a man with a cart, filled with dilapidated, haggard, worn- out, weary-looking oranges. They look as if they had travelled the world over and back, and come at last to the last stage where oranges ever appear. Did you ever see those Five-Point oranges? Broadway de- spises them, Fifth Avenue scorns them, Eighth Avenue rejects them, markets ignore them, Grand and Canal Streets decline i g -. TOGETHER. 205 them: nobody wants them! and away they go down to the Five Points, seeking encouragement and custom from the suburbs and environs of Cow-Bay, and the plebeian purlieus of Baxter Street. Hear the cry as the cart moves on: "Fine large Havanas, fresh andripe, only one cint a-piece! Around the orange-cart, hover six little bare-headed, bare-footed, half-clad, four-year-old Five- Pointers, looking wistfully at those shadowy, marred, and mut- ilated vestiges of the orange creation. There 's " no trust "in the man's eye, and no cash' in the child's hand. I have a few oranges left. I put in each little hand one of my large, fresh, sweet oranges) and there 's a half-a-doken more bright smiles, little warm soul-rays. How young these Five-Point children learn to walk! I say, as I meet so many little bits of bare-headed humanity toddling along, unattended, alone, as if started for a long promenade. They go over and under and through all kinds of stick, stone, and dirt impediments, safely and securely. If Nelly Harwed should walk half as far over those sticks and stones, she would break her neck five times over. As they propel the bare feet so carelessly along, they almost fall down that deep, dark, damp cellar, whose rickety, shaking, qlaking, steps almost tempt, irresistibly the young toddler's headlong descent. I see a poor old man, with his waxed-end and bits of leather, patching Five Point's dilapidated soles. He sits down there all day, in a perpetual dusky twilight, tirelessly stitching away. There no sunshine ever comes. I roll down into his den one of those large oranges, then another and another. As the oranges roll down' there, in the dark, he looks up and he smiles. I don't know which is the most beautiful : the child's smile, or the smile that lights up that sad old man's patient, furrowed face, - no more than I can tell whether the rose that blushes in the dawn is more radiant than the violet that softens the last rays of the dyinig sun- ,set. Those three radiant smiles are come and gone, as the old man picks up one orange and puts it on the lap of a young grandchild, sitting upon an old bed in the corner, I hear the little one crow, and Ifeel the baby smile, though I don't see it. There 's hardly a nook in the Five Points where you don't find a little child set in the midst of them. I wish I could carry a basket of sunshine, and fill that poor old man's cellar, I say, as I pass along and think of him, stitch- ing away in life's endless twilight. I have been thinking lately of saving all I could; and I might page: 206-207[View Page 206-207] 206 TOGETHER. in a few years, or at my death, establish a Grenville College, a Grenville Institute, or Grenville Library. Charity looks so im- posing at the head of an army of benevolence, with colors waving and music playing! Perhaps if I should diem An-At look down from heights celestial, and see the sunshine on my college-win- dows, or in my library-Ahelves; or see a group of aristocratic maidens around mny Institute. The Grenville College- would sound finely. Grenville is a pretty name. But yet I don't know but I 'd rather be one of God's wayside gardeners, and plant a heart's-ease in some child's path, or twine Hope's morning- gloryiround Age's darkened, broken window. I am not rich now. I have lost a great deal of property through this war; but yet I should like to build one thing before I die, - a child's college, - limiNed by no charter, but incorporated with the quality of perpet- ual existence and succession, - liberally endowed with comforts, with a grand, comprehensive laboratory of playthings, with no severe restraints but clean hands and face. Each child should be required to pass throulgh several high degrees of distinguished kindness, and receive each night and morning, as its greatest privilege and honor, the diploma of a kiss! I would, with a little urging, modestly accept the offer of a Presidentship of said college; and, around the buildings, the grounds should be much more extensive than you usually see around those beautiful pic- tures of colleges; with an infinitely greater variety of trees and shrubbery, -not those spiritual trees that grow around academies and colleges in pictured catalogues, which the inmates of the college never see. There 's no cooling shade in those catalogued trees. ' . I went to an academy once, around or near which no tree ever grew. No one could plant a tree in that earth's rocky heart; yet that academy was so beautiful in the catalogue, sur- rounded with its grove of refreshing trees, many a distant parent thought it a delightful retreat for youth and maidens. I have often thought, when seated under the cool, graceful shadows of its high brick walls, - around which " eternal sun- shine " always played, - I'd like to leave my intellect there to get accomplished and edu'cated, and take my heart back on the Wings of that sweet summer morning, and rest under the cool shadows of the beautiful elms of my dear old home. I wonder what aesthetic young, boy of fifty gets up these tree- adorned catalogues. He must have a most luxuriant fancy. His tastes are decidedly agricultural., If he were only'at large, what -*{'^ TOGETHER. , 207 comfort he might be to the farming community generally! He might give valuable hints to tree-growers and tree-lovers, in his rare discoveries of trees that are not. I am walking honae. As I approach my own door, the old thoughts come back again. There, at the corner, Association stands, that ceaseless convoy of the soul, to go by my side and lead me back into the dreary, weary past. There, in that room, where I have read, and sung, and smiled, I have sometimes been very happy. Has God mercifully made the heart like a palimp- sest parchment, from which one writing can be erased and another be written? Is "the flower-inwoven mantle" of the heart like " an illuminated page " on which Joy's " different ages lie half concealed " one above another? The sweetest flower of my life, the violet of joy that perfumed my whole soul with heart's-ease, has gone. Tears have washed away its last little leaf; it will never bloom again. Will some pitying angel yet plant, far down in Sorrow's loneliest shade, close by the river of tears, the little lily of the valley of resignation, filling my bitter memories with its sweet, soothing odors? On trouble's sharp, snowy peaks shall I see the rose of the heart's Alps,--little rhododendrons growing fresh and bright. They tell me most every heart has in its earliest spring some little morning-glory of love, that opens its blue eyes once, and closes them so soon, never to open them more; but by and by comes the evening primrose or the heliotrope, that lasts longer, and .is just as sweet. This is God's palimpsest. He mercifully prepares the soul's tablets for writing again new, flowery joys. So every heart hath its palimpsest, its second writing. If they would only tell us, - the men and women who move so cheerfully about us, - tell us the truth, read us the real handwriting on the heart's inner wall, show us the dim, buried hieroglyph and old inscription, we would know that most all had some little bright morning-glory, that opened, then closed forever. My mother, my good mother said the soul could sing trium- phantly'in Trouble's midnight, in Sorrow's prison, amid Grief's clanking chains. But I have n't got that kind of soul. If I could only have the one joy I wanted, I would do without everything else, come what would. And a despairing cry went up from tny heart that somehow this cup of sorrow might pass away. Here 's a letter from Harry, with this piece of poetry in it. He wants me to see if it is good for anything. He wrote it himself. Poor fellow! he writes me everything. I told him to write me just as he thought and felt. This is his second composition:-- u --- -- -Uvrrrrbru CCIH VC* page: 208-209[View Page 208-209] THE VEILED HEART. VEILED is man, a shadowy being, Passing through life's convent drear; Seeny none, no spirit seeing, t Every heart goes black-veiled here. Side by side each nun-heart walketh, Often to some brother talketh, Still no heart is what it seemeth, What's within no stranger dreameth. Thoughts the best, and thoughts the holiest, Rarely move on outward face; Feelings deep, from depths the lowliest, On life's billows show no trace. o When we meet a spirit true, Much we fail to say and do; Better thought and better word Hide in depths of heart unstirred. Mailed in armor, firm and strong, Moveth beating heart along; All within itself must keep Mightiest thought and feeling deep. In each clay casket, frail and plain, No human heart shall beat in vain; Divine appraiser in the dark Carves on each soul His private mark. Hid by curtain close and dark There within those mystic walls, We may man our spirit's bark, Quick to launch when curtain falls. Our great High-Priest above, alone In temple of the heart hath throne; At "' inmost holy " shrine HE bends In twain the mystic curtain rends. Our thoughts like deep and hidden fires, Our souls like mute and muffled lyvres, Await the boom from the Eternal shore, Waking to life for evermore. Far down from longing's loftiest goal, That last reveille shall call the soul, And in a voice unearthly clear, It shall, " true sentry, answer - Here." The captive heart shall burst its chain, As dust to dust returns again; Freed spirit find its long-sought goal, And soul, vmumasked, commune with souL TOGETHER.- 209 CHAPTER XXVII. TABBYTHA FELIS. I HAVE tugged, and lugged, and walked, and climbed so much to-day, I am tired. I think I can sleep to-night, all night, with- out dreaming, I say, as I ascend the stairs leading to my room. My parlor-door is half open. I say my parlor, for one of my rooms I have used as a parlor, ever since Mildred went away. She has been in Philadelphia some time. She sings in church there, and has a fine salary. As I go up the stairs, I hear a manly step walking back and forth, and a manly voice singing,- "The monkey married the baboon's sister, Smacked his lips, and then he kissed her; What do you think they had for supper? Black-eyed beans, and bread and butter." I know the voice and the step. No other man would march back and forth so long, with little, plump, restless Nelly Harwed perched up on his shoulder, and no other man would Miss Nelly, coy and cautious as she is allow to take such liberties with her little ladyship. At every revolution round the room, the gentleman shakes his head, and gives a funny little bob to the child in the glass. Nelly's head bobs too, and she almost kills herself with laughing, and everybody knows a child's laugh is the sweetest music in the world, - the very soul of genuine glee. As I walk in, Nelly demurely descends from her proud eleva- tion, sits down on a little bench at Arthur's feet, and folds her plump dimpled hands, in mute circumspect dignity. Arthur has been gone a long time, I am glad to see him back, as glad as I can be at anything now. He seizes my hand, shakes it cordially, looks earnestly into my face, and with sorrow and surprise in his fine eyes, he says, "Are you not well? Did you never recover from that fearful accident?" " page: 210-211[View Page 210-211] 210 TOGETHER. "Oh yes," I said, trying to look bright and like my old self again. I recovered entirely from that a long time since. But yef I did n't tell him, how his coming brought with it the memory of the light heart I had once, when I saw him so often, and everything in life, present and future, looked calm, hopeful, bright. I sighed as I thought, the same undimmed light never could come back to my eyes again. Yet, I am glad to see Arthur, though he cannot bring back with him all the rainbow-dr'eams woven around my heart only one year ago. While Arthur asks me a few questions and tells me about his travels, I am watching my cat; for though all alone in the world; brotherless, sisterless, motherless, I have one pet, my good-looking, well-behaved, most respectable, affectionate cat. I call her Tabbytha Felis. Tab- bytha is a most wonderful judge and critic of people. From some of my gentleman callers, after giving one wise glance, she will turn and walk away into the remotest corner, with a suspi- cious shrug, and a defiant look in her wise face. She seems to know when people pay her heartless, hypocritical attention on my account, when inwardly they would give her a spiritual kick or sharp rebuff; and I can see a spiritual scratch in her eye. But no sooner is Arthur seated on the sofa, than Tabbytha Felis walks boldly and confidingly up to him, climbs up on his knee. He strokes her gently, pats her tenderly, plays with her so caress- ingly, while he is talking with me, elating her marvellously with his ceaseless attentions. She droops her head at last, cuddles up under his coat, and soon goes off into a soloistic pur, placid and profound; and at the end of her first brief nap, she half opens her sleepy eyes, looks quaintly up into Arthur's face, saying in her meek, mute eloquence, "You're my friend, ain't you?"If I were to get up a new engraving of Trust, I would have my Tabbytha Felis seated on Arthur Glenstein's knee, and looking up into his frank, ingenuous, protecting face. Some fine artist has at last found out and revealed the hidden beauty of forlorn, for- gotten cathood, - cathood idealized. I saw the other day, at Schaus', a most exquisite picture of two beautiful kittens. I think under it was printed in French, "The two Sisters." It was a perfect little gem, and I hope to see the day when at the Annual Exhibition of Art, at the Academy of Design, there shall be one well-executed specimen of the neglected race. I think I'll have MSir. Carleyn take a portrait of my Tabbytha; for I am sure she is graceful in motion, beautiful in repose. There's a great deal more expression in her face than many TOGETHER. 2" people have. Just put a little cap on my Tabbytha's head, and you 'll see what a wise, motherly, yet naive human look it brings out., Man, so absorbed with cares of the great outside world, will rarely give even an infinitesimal space of soul to thoughts of poor insignificant puss; but woman shares and sympathizes with the least little life breathing beside her. She spells out in the lowly, dumb face, the words,- God made it; and this dignifies and elevates the lowliest life in her patient eyes; and never is lord of creation lordlier or lovelier to me, than when he steps aside from Ambition's royal walk, so as not to crush the least little worm that struggles so hard to live its brief appointed life. My Tabbytha is a faint abridgment, a concise epitome of her sex generally. She follows the gentle. step, watches the kindly eye, comes at the friendly call, when she won't budge an inch for a harsh, petulant voice. How much faster and better, more happy and harmonious the world of humanity would move along, if peoplp would only say to the helpless, hunted, timid, stubborn heart, --"Come here, poor puss, puss, puss," instead of that disagreeable, domineering, dictatorial, will-defying, hate-challenging, everlasting, scat, seat, scat. I must tell you what happened yesterday. The front room under mine is occupied by Mr. Strong Willit, aE bachelor between thirty and fifty. He is one of your go-a-head, inevitable-neces- sity, gunpowder, compound-blowpipe men. If he should find, when he comes back into his room after a brief absence, one lof the pins gone off his cushion, he might fret himself into an epilectic fit or clonic spasm, over"his severe loss and his great personal wrong. There, in his bachelor domains, are endless. magazines, pamphlets, and books, lying in uniform symmetrical piles on book-shelves and tables. He had been arranging them over, and some were still lying on chairs -and benches, piled up and classified, waiting to be restored to their old asylum on the book-shelves. My door was open and I heard him say, "It is per- fectly outrageous that confounded cat should stray in here. I wish I could break her neck for her." He imagined (as I con- tend few great souls ever do), that even my 7'abbytha's- quiet presence was an intrusion, a serious obstacle to his uninterrupted reading. So Mr. Strong Willit flew at the animal. Terrified and excited, she goes every way but the right, as she hears the cease- less, stentorian roll-call of "Scat, scat, seat!"She hides first in one page: 212-213[View Page 212-213] 212 TOGETHiER. nook, then in another, - in her precipitous evolutions and rapid revolutions around the room, upsetting magazines, pamphlets, papers, and the pile of newly-ironed shirts lying on his table, in her hasty hegira from her furious pursuer, - and at last escapes through the open door, followed by the indignant Mr. Strong Willit, who drives her down the stairs and into the yard. In her rapid, ignorant, thoughtless flight, she jumps headlong into a neighboring pit, from whose deep, dark depths three precious mortal hours of labor and patience of'the gentleman and Patrick combined can hardly extricate her. With linen soiled, locks dusty, back aching, and head weary, Mr. Willit returns to his room, having at last accomplished the marvelous, mighty feat of ejecting Tabbytha. A broken screw- driver, the first offensive weapon used, lay on the floor; beside it a broken tumbler, books, papers, bottles, and magazines, lay in one miscellaneous chaos. In her meanderings through recesses, Tabbytha had overturned and overturned, and three more mortal hours could n't repair the damages. If I -had n't been a woman, I would have gone in and said,-- "Mr. Willit, I can give you a safe, sure writ of ejectment for universal cathood. Call, in a gentle tone, once or twice, - Puss, -puss, poor pussy, pussy, and she will come from her retreat noiselessly and promptly; at your gentlest bidding harmlessly depart." But your genuine, inveterate cat-hater never takes advice from a woman. Mr. Strong Willit, and all the members of his family, glory in the majestic might, the masculine prerogative of their infallible reason. As I hear Mr. Willit go growling back into his room, I think all there is great about that man is his will. It is a perfect Colossus. He would rather carry out a wrong to its extremest, bitter end, if he willed its beginning, than turn a little and go into the path of right; even though shining lamps and cheering stars beckon him on. He 'lll follow a thorny path, dismal and dark, till his soul is scarred and maimed, because in Some blind moment he wished and willed to enter it. He'll walk the waay he puts his foot down first, following giant General Will, though Victory's sweetest, noblest voice en- treats and commands him to right-about-face. Mrs. Harwed comes to the door for Nelly, and requests the privilege of Tabbytha Felis's company down stairs awhile, --it will please Nelly so; and so Tabbytha departs out of my room, TOGETHER. 218 and so, with soft step and slow, she glides out of my chapter, as noiselessly as life's little things come and go. "Oh turn not from poor Pussy in disdain, Whose pride of ancestry may equal thine; For is she not a blood-descendant of The ancient Catty-line?" page: 214-215[View Page 214-215] 214 . TOGETHER. 'CHAPTER XXVIII. WHAT ARTHUR SAYS; OR, SOMETHNG THE READER MUST KEEP TO HMSELF AS TOLD HM IN THE STRICTEST CONFIDENCE. --Let no flower of the spring pass by us. Let us crown ourselves with rose-buds before they be withered. WISDOM OF SOLOMON. WOULD N'T you like to know what Arthur talks to me about? But it would n't be right to tell you all. He is going to Europe in three months, and he wants me to go with him. He says there's only one thing I will have to take along; that will be this name written in the inside of a little diamond ring, - Louise Glenstein. I can keep the old initials still, - L. G.; and rehearsing each time I write my signature the unfortunate G. I try to fobrget the name of Laurence Greenleaf now. Once it rather amused me, as a type of the mysterious symbol of the life I could lead out of my little self. Now 'even the name is Qnly a sad reminder of a long, lonely chapter in life's endless epic. "Is there any barrier between your heart and mine; any gulf devotion cannot leap? Any wall love cannot at last scale? Is your-love hidden quite away from my finding?" says Arthur. "Why do you tell me so solemnly, sadly, No? Am I so unlovely you could never learn to love me? Do you love another?" "Arthur," said I, as my eyes filled with tears at his earnest, eloquent pleading, "I loved another, though no tie bound us, no engagement held, no words of love were ever spoken. He was never avowed lover of mine. He was slain in battle months ago. Between your love and" mine is that little green grave in my heart." "Had I known that," said Arthur tenderly, "I would not have disturbed you now with love of mine." I do not tell Arthur the inscription on the nameless grave. He ortly says, '"Let my constant love be a star to shine down on that little grave; tell me about the good, great soul you have so TOGETHER. 215 mourned and missed; let me be friend, consoler, brother." And I tell him about the manuscript, my great hope, its successful achievement, and its sudden tragical end. I feel better now I can talk to some one about it. Arthur goes away; but that eveninrg he sends me a little book, - "( The Near and the Heavenly Horizon," by Madam de Gasparin. I sit and read it all the evening. I come to that place where she says, "No one being is indispensable to our happiness," - and I close the book and think. My heart is like a forest oak, gnarled, shattered, and storm-beaten; on the sward beneath are strewn the fragments which Grief's blasts and Sorrow's snows have brought down. Yet still will it wear year after year its crown of green leaves? Are the ages of feeling, the loves of the heart, counted by concentric rings, one above the other, from its earthly root to its celestial flowering at last? One love weaves its golden ring around it. As years pass will other circles of love girdle and clasp the heart? or does the tree die as its first love begins and ends, and round it no more girdles of affection grow thereafter forever? Shall I ever look through my soul's drooping branches, through memory's dark green and gray mosses, and count any more bright love-girdles? From Griefs calyx do Joy's petals ever burst forth and bloom afresh? I can see nothing now but the marble slab in my heart, with this inscription:- . "Private ERNEST HEART- killed." Above it are only sculptured marble roses, which hope can- not pluck, or wreathe, or wear. It is growing late. It is eleven o'clock. How sti is! I hear no sound but the beating of my heart. "I listen! for in the aching silence round, O'er the lost lilies and the dying lights, The same deep voices with an awful sound Say their response through all the days and nights." But I don't sit and listen every day and night to the beating of my heart. Arthur -comes often and reads to me. He reads me that dainty little poem of Stoddard's, - "The King's Bell," and I wonder if "The Happy Bell" can ever be rung in my heart. He -reads a variety -of books, and he reads the evening news, extras, &c. At last I say one morning I must have a hand- in this war, as I read about the brave living patriots and the dear dead heroes. So I go away at last, and board near -- Hospital. page: 216-217[View Page 216-217] 216 TOGETHER. Some people say this notion of change is all humbug; this going out of town for change of air and scene is neither necessary for mind or body; but I know better. I'd like to be put all at once into a new place, where' bird, nor flower, nor tree were familiar, - where every link binding me to Regret could be sev. ered. Minds are often thus saved from insanity, and bodies from premature death. It is going to be a beautiful evening; the stars are coming out. It is such a night as it was when we went to Professor Mitchell's lecture, and Ernest Heart sat by my side. u "Two years ago a patient face Leaned on the azure of this space. ":Two years-ago, a poet's eyes Drank all the splendor of these skies. u' Two years ago a hero's heart Swelled to the music of this mart. "I miss the mellow, manful grace, The soft sad splendor of that face. "Ernest, your name I now embalm, In this still eve's seraphic calm. "The air is vital with your breath. For such as you there is no death." TOGETHER. E 217 CHAPTER XXTX. LOVE'S PALIMPSEST. ONE morning, before I go to the hospital, I read this sentence of Charles Lamb's: "THE SICK MAN'S BED. - If there be a regal solitude, it is a bed. 'How the patient lords it there-what caprices he acts without control! How king-like he sways his pillow, - tumbling, and tossing, and shifting, and moulding it to the ever-varying requisition of his throbbing temples. He changes sides oftener than a politician. -Now lies full-length, then half-length, oblique-. ly, transversely, head and feet quite across the bed -and none accuse him of tergiversation. Within the four curtains he is absolute. How sickness enlarges the dimensions of a man's self to himself! He is his own exclusive object. Supreme selfish- ness is inculcated on him as his only duty. 'Tis the two tables of the Law to him. He has nothing to think of but how to get well. What passes out of doors or within them, so he hears not the jarring of them, affects him not." And I say it is true. I always was vexed with Dr. Johnson, for saying in his unanswerable, imperious way, that "all mankind are rascals when they are sick." Any one would say that Dr. Johnson was a rascal for saying so, could they stay with me nearly all of one day at the hospital, and see the patient eyes, silent lips, and un- complaining, still agony. But one thing is true: man was never foreordained or predestined, fitted or accomplished for the . vocation of nurse. With very, very few and rare exceptions, of men, who hide under their' rough coat-sleeves a pair of minister- ing wings, mankind are, neither by constitution, inheritance, or destiny, nurses,--nurses, useful, tolerable, or successful. See them make a .bed, smoothe a pillow, or bathe a forehead. In fever's feebleness, delirium's dreariness, wound's wretchedness, they don't know what to do or how; but to put their soul in another suffering soul's stead, to rock a weary spirit to restin page: 218-219[View Page 218-219] 218 TOGETHER. r Ki sympathy's soft, sweet cradle,- walking softly, whispering gently, lifting tenderly helpless humanity,-- eW of them can if they would; and some of them would n't if they could. I heard one well, strong man, standing up beside a feeble invalid brother, say, "Well, John, you must grin and bear it." It was. a sweet bit of philosophy, antd a dainty morsel of comfort, - so appropriate, original, and consoling. If he had been in the sick brother's place, he would have growled outright, had he been favored with a similar bit of consolation. But in Hospital the nurses were all men, or " boys," as they call them. Mine were the only pair of feminine hands in the whole building. I go every day and do my poor best. I walk unharmed through the grim regiment of evils, - Typlioids, Pneumonias, Congestions, Diptherias. I sit by the cot-beds, unscared, witlhout a shudder rr shiver, hearing the surgeons cutting and sawing. I answer questions, read papers, write letters, administer delicacies. I feed,las tenderly as I would an infant, my saucers of beef-tea, to those who can't hold up their great, manly heads, on account of some fearful, distressing wounds. I bring them flowers and delicacies, which I have to hunt all through the city to find. Forty ambulances have just come, bring- ing in their wounded freight, and in all the/beds in the ward not one of the poor fellows can stand, each is' so riddled with shot and shell. As they are boerne in on the stretchers, they look more like death than life. Two of them have just died - their faces are covered over--they have met the king of conquerors, and fought their last battle, but their souls are marching on in the field of immortality. Their names are ticketed and registered, and they are taken out to the house for the' dead. Before the door, grim sentries patrol, ceaseless days and nights. I verily believe if all these poor fellows in the ward should have their legs and arms amputated, the sentinels would still keep their vigilant parole, lest these wrecks human should run away to their homes. They arrested one poor fellow in the upper ward yesterday, for crawling out of his bed, and going around the corner to buy himself one decent breakfast. The sergeant had given him pee- mission, but the fussy orderly had n't signed, or sealed, or counter- signed it, and his injured dignity had John's cap and coat put under immediate arrest, and John under discipline; but he looks as if he would be confined to the limits of his bed for some time yet.: Poor fellow! fever, pneumonia, and pain arrested him long ago; and grim Death may be only a little behind the grim orderly, who is nothing but a big bunch of snarled red tape, surmounted TOGETHER. 219 with something that looks like a head. He reminds me, and I can- not help it, of one of those big, black, brainless and bloodless, hol- low cockroaches, that so infest the corngrs and closets at Mrs. Harwed's. It is a mistake! I say, that man ought to have been a cockroach. There isn't a drop of the milks of human kindness in him. I'd like to drown him, but I don't believe he could be drowned, any more than I could drown one of those fleshess, hollow cockroaches. I tried hard enough once, when I bfound three in the marble basin where I wash my hands. I wish some Lion powder could blow up these stinging, biting, use- less human roaches, that will infest homes, hearts, and hospitals. Why 'the man actually told me once, as I was giving a few drops of wine to a poor fellow that was near death, that there was n't inuch the matter with the man! Ihe was making believe sick, and getting up a great fuss for nothing! There 's one thing about it: he can't arrest me for giving John a good breakfast and dinner, too, every day, if I have to arrest and behead every chicken in the city. John laughed as he heard me say this, when I brought him a bowl of chicken-tea this noon. I never heard John laugh before. I close up the broken window-pane behind his head, with all the pins and the papers I can get, though the rough wind blows the paper down at first, almost as fast as I put it up. I -stay months near the hospital, and get used to the rollers, instruments, and plasters. But I can't get used to the groans of, one of the men. When he sleeps he groans as if' in agony of distress. I get beautiful letters fromn Arthur, three times a week. There's a diamond-ring on my finger, with only Louise engraven on it. It will be six weeks yet before the Glenstein is engraven beside it. Glenstein is a good, noble name, and the man is good and noble. Scholars call him wise, business-men say he is shrewd, sagacious, successful, safe; maidens call him eloquent- tongued and bewitching in form and face; old ladies and little children almost worship him ; and my heart says, until H saw Ernest Heart, I always thought Arthur the best, truest, kindest of men. Ernest's love, was a sweet little violet, nestling in my heart. Arthur's love, is a hardy evergreen, that has -grown up beside the violet's grave. The violet is gone, but I cling to the ever- green, while the, odor of the violet will always linger around the vase of my soul. There is n't the least little bijou of memory, laid away in any corqfer of my heart, in any secret drawer, that has n't the odor of the lost violet. I tell Arthur I can't love him as I have lovedLonce, but I have promised to be his faithful, 9% ' - i page: 220-221[View Page 220-221] 220 TOGETHER. devoted wife, till death us do part; and I can't help loving him: he has been brother, friend, consoler, everything to me. We are to be married in six weeks, and then go to Europe. I shall stay with these poor fellows two weeks longer, and then go home to get ready. I can read Ernest's book now. 1 sit every day and read a chapter of it beside some of those cot-beds. Poor fellows! its words seem to cheer and console them more than anything I can read to them. They smile as I open the book. It is ful- filling its mission, though the hand that wrote it is folded o'er clay. It gives comfort in this narrow hospital; but it will go forth like a glad Evangel into the world's great hospital? and bind up wounded hearts, as they toss-restlessly on Care's hard pillow. Its words of sympathy shall heal scarred, maimed souls, and so the balm may come back to me at last. It could n't have a better name here than "Aureol/a." A grbat many of these men endure like saints and suffer like martyrs. I get another letter from Arthur. It seems, though nobody expected it, the New York State Regiment of Militia/are ordered off immediately, for thirty days' absence, - not for field- service, but to take the place of others, while the veteran troops press forward to the conflict. It is to suppress some civil insur- rection, or to guard some public property, or intimidate by an armed presence the rebellious, troublesome element; to keep the peace I suppose. Arthur is a member of the regiment, and of course goes with the rest; but he'll be back in thirty days; He says none of the men anticipate the least danger. There'll be a little novelty and excitement in the change, camping out, drilling, and marching, I believe a few of the young men joined the company about a year ago, to please their mothers, who thought it would improve their figures, as they were getting a little round- shouldered. "These thirty-days-men only play war," says a man on the cot-bed by my side, who has been two years in the ser- vice and has lost his right arm in his last battle; and the surgeon knows very well that the man must always belong to life's great invalid corps. There are three other expectant brides whose lovers have gone off in Arthur's regiment. Some of the finest young men in the city belong to it. I have written Mrs. Har- wed that I shall be back in two weeks; I can't leave these poor fellows before that. I must try and see John well before I go. I didn't think he would get well; but my chicken-tea for Lis dinner, and Ernest Heart's book for his amusement, entertainment.. TOGETHER. 221 and consolation, have worked wonders. Feed them, cheer them, soothe them, Is the best prescription for weak, worn-out, wounded humanity. I meant to have made myself some very handsome wedding. presents. I have spent a great deal here at the hospital; but I have n't had anything new in a long time. I did mean to cet me a new blue poplin dress, - one of those real poplins, for which I have .such a great fancy. Then I'd like a set of -cmine, and a new velvet cloak, and a blue hat, with a beautifiul blue ostrich- feather, the handsomest I can find in the city. I know just the colors which become my fair complexion and brown hair, and I suppose if ever one wants to look pretty it is when one is going to be married. But I think I must shock my young- lady readers, by telling them I shall be married without having any new bonnet, poplin dress, or ermines. The old things must be fixed over. They are really as good as new; only the girls will ask,-"Did you see the bride, Louise Glenstein, in church? and what did she come out in?"I 'll tell them I came out in palimpsest garments, that is in garments " twice prepared." I am not rich, and I can't afford to spend time or money, as most girls do now, in embroidering ruffles and bands enough to stock fifty small fancy-stores, and in buying and making garments of linen, cotton, silk, woollen, and velvet, as if I never meant to have any- thing again for a thousand years,--as if. I expected after my marriage all the dry-good stores to be forever closed, and the milliners and dress-makers all dead, eloped, or resigned. There 's my friend Nelly Stylen, who has been engaged five years. She is to be married in two weeks. She has been getting ready all this time; but there is one garment she has n't finished, and she is in a perfect worry and hurry about it, she is so afraid it won't be-done. It has about a foot in depth of fine, close, elaborate embroidery up and down the front and sides, and- it is only half done. I feel really sorry for her; but the truth' is, 1 like nice things as well as anybody, and, like all the other girls, I take pride in having a good, genteel, stylish, fashionable, ele- gant outfit. But yesterday, Laurence Greenleaf paid Dr. Boyn- ton; sent him a check in a letter of $75 for medical services for old Mrs. Aster, Harry's mother. Dr. Boynton has cured her, so that she can walk about now as well as most any old lady; and besides, I paid $60 (or placing her in the Brooklyn "Home for Respectable Aged and Indigent Females," and she has been there a month, and is very contented there. I have just put page: 222-223[View Page 222-223] 222 TOGETHER. Harry in the Polytechnic Institute. His head is-so full of books I don't believe he'll ever be contented without an education. I mean he shall be fitted for college. I got a letter froin him yes- terday. He tells me everything - he is very young yet. He has scribbled off this little,piece of poetry; it is his second composi- tion, and he wants me to See if it's good for anything beftre he hands it in. I think it is good for a boy as young as- e. I'll put it here to get your opinion of it, as I presume you are a person of good judgment, sense, and taste, and I hope you are interested in Harry by this time. "1 Down in the heart,glows many a gem, That never is seen by eyes of men; Yet shines most pure, in its cell so deep, Where angels holy their bright watch keep. "The vase of the heart blooms many a flower, Exhaling its sweets ;each bitter hour ; It has dew, and sun, and skies of its own, That flower in the heart so fair and lone. The long grass grows round the heart's fiesh graves, And hides the floweirs neath its damp, dark waves; But you know by th- sweetness lingering there, How man:y a heart's-ease has blossomed fair. "There 's many a star in the heart's pure sky, Unseen and unwatched by the careless eye; Yet brighter it glows, till radiant gleams That star in the heart with celestial beams. . "Great thoughts find ltome in the soul despised, Nor cling to the earth, but mount to the skies; Aye, thoughts too pure for this mocking earth, In souls forgotten oft have birth. "Above Ambition's highest flight, Beyond the stars serene and bright; Dazzling Sheckinah, radiant light, Rests on the lone soul's cloudless night. "In each clay casket, frail and plain, No human heart shall beat in vain; Divine Appraiser, in the dark, Carives on each soul His private mark. "Nor flower, nor gem, nor star of soul May leave a trace on a'mortal scroll; Veiled flower, lone star, and hidden gems Shall grace Valhalla's diadems. ONLY A BOY." As I fold up the composition, marked on the outside No. 1, I say there's a good deal down in the bottom of that boy's heart. TOGETHER. 223 I go back to my room, and there on my table is a box. It ought to have been here three weeks ago. It is from Arthur. I open it. It is a beautiful ermine set, -collar, muff, and cuffs, -just the thing I wanted; it was just like Arthur to think of it. I never like to buy a very expensive article for myself; it seems a kind of waste of money; but yet I do like to wear nice things. The more they cost the better I like them. I'd rather wear a little of the very best fur, than to be completely covered with an inferior article. If anybody should see me, one of these days, in Grace Church, as Mrs. Arthur Glenstein, I lIope they won't be ashamed of the bride's shabby furs. I have tried them on over my cloak, and looked in the glass, and they give the cloak quite an air. I shall make myself a bonnet, and put all the money I can afford in the feather. There's no economy in buying a cheap feather. I can't help it,- as I read over Arthur's last letter, I do believe I love Arthur ever so much. I sit a long, long time that night, and before I fall asleep these words come in my mind. I 'll write them to Arthur to-morrow. "Imperfect as I am, and you Perchance not all you seem, We two together 'll garner up Our past's bright, broken dream. "We two together 'll dare to look Upon the years to come, As travellers met, in far countrie, Together look towards home." page: 224-225[View Page 224-225] 224 TOGETHER. CHAPTER XXX. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. A little or nothing is his rest; and afterward he is in his sleep, as in a day of keeping watch, troubled in the vision of his heart, as if he were escaped out of a btiile. - ECCLESIASTICUS xl. 6. Cling to the Mighty One, Ps. Ixxxix. 19. Cling in thy grief; Heb. xii. 11. Cling to the Holy One, Heb. i. 22. He gives relief. Ps. cxvi. 9. Cling to the Gracious One, Ps. cxvi. 5. Cling in thy pain; Ps. Iv. 4. Cling to the Faithful One, 1- Thess. v. 24. He will sustain. Ps. xxiii. 8. Cling to the Living One, Heb. vii. 25. Cling in thy woe; Ps. lxxxvi. 7. Cling to the Living One, 1 John iv. 16. Through all below. Rom. viii. 38, 39. I AM much interested in one man at the hospital. He has been here five weeks. I have done all I could thor his comfort. I have read to him nearly the whole of Aureola, and some pas- sages he has liked so much I have marked. He groans nearly all night some nights, and moans and starst in his sleep. I sup- pose the horrors of battle-fields haunt him still. To-day I saw him looking so wistfully at two miniatures. One is a lovely woman, and the other a young lady about my age. There's tenderness in his look, and it seems to me I can see regret in his face, as he lies there and gazes at them. As I bring him some toast to-day, he says I remind him of his daughter. She is my height, and her hair and eyes are like mine. She is to be married soon to Judge Sherwood's son. I know the family--'tis one of the first and proudest in the country. They are proud of their family,'intellect, and wealth. One of the boys told me to-day that this man's name was Charles Emberton. He was surrounded by influential friends; he had a high social position; had been a short time a- judge himself; left family, friends,. and all, and enlisted'as a private in the army. Always first and bravest at the post of danger, he TOGETHER. 225. became, after rapid and successive promotions, a General. His right arm was shot in that terrible battle we had six weeks ago. It has since been amputated. He seemed to take a strange kind of satisfaction in sacrificing the arm. "tHe has not been relig- iously educated or religiously inclined; yet when I read to him the Bible the words impress and interest him. One dfay I was reading this passage, --"He that covereth his sins shall not prosper; but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them shall have mercy." He asked me to read the passage over. I read it slowly. He listened as if his life depended upon the words. He told me once he had heard Lieutenant Ernest Heart read the same words to a dying soldier. It was only a few days after the soldier died that Lieutenant Heart was shot. He saw him fall; he mourned for him as a brother; so did the rest of' the men. One night after a terrible battle, he and Lieutenant Heart had a long talk. They, neither of them, had expected to come out alive, their number was so small, and they had to fight an overpower- ing number of the enemy. "I remember Mr. Heart saying," said General Emberton, "when he went into that battle, he felt as if lie could forgive all his enemies. I told Mr. Heart that night the saddest secret of my life. We talked about our home and the country. Mr. Heart had a Plymouth Collection of Hymns; I had been looking it over. Some of the hymns were great favorites of my wife's. I turned over the leaves, and some lines written with pencil on the fly-leaf arrested my attention. "Mr. Heart said he thought they were beautiful lines ; that once while standing in church, beside a young girl, fair and lovely, she stood beside a pillar and looked over the book with him. The words came into his mind; he had read them once somewhere, he believed; yet they came into his mind as if made for her; He was detained by a shower in church, and he wrote the lines in his hymn-book; he was aftraid he might forget them. He said her face, her form, her manner so impressed him, and that once he had her in his arms, and bore her home senseless. The car- riage in which she was had upset, and she came very near being killed. i I remembered the lines after Lieutenant Heart was killed. I had the book. Here it is," said he, and General Emberton took the hymn-book out from under his pillows, and said " these two lines Lieutenant Heart repeated, over and over:- "For 'Jubilate Domine ' her every look doth show, And ' Gloria ' is writ upon the brightness of her brow." 15 page: 226-227[View Page 226-227] 226o - TOGETHER. "If Mr. Heart had a mother or sister living," said General Emberton, "I-would give her the book." "I know," said I, speaking suddenly and quickly, "one who knew him well, who wroutd value the book so highly. If you will give it to me she shall have it. I don't think any one in the world could think more of it.." He handed mne the book. I took it. "When I rallied Lieutenant Heart about the young lady," said General Emberton, " he said very gravely, - ' No; she is rich and I poor; and I found out afterwards she was engaged to Mr. Arthur Glenstein. But if she is even now his wife I can always see the Gloria in the brighiness of her brow.' " "Perhaps Lieutenant Heart might have been engaged,?" said I. "No; lhe said the only young lady he had known intimately was a young lady from the country! Nethelyn, who was almrost blind; her father had written to ask him if he would. go with her three times a week to the oculist's. She stopped at Mrs. Cater's, where he boarded. He went with her to the oculist's for two months; but thlere was little hope of warding off permanent amaurosis." That night I was alone in my room with that hymn-book; the book I had held with trembling hand only a year ago, and these lines that I had thought lhe Wgrote about Mildred were written for me, - wae, poor little me. Some of the last tender thoughts of his great noble heart were for Fme. 'T is a little violet comfort planted in my heart that will never die ---never wither. I have talked so much to iGeneral Emnberton about Mr,. Heart, because I like to hear aboutI him, and then it does the man good to think of somebody else; it-turns his mind away from himself. He asks me to read in the Bible often now. I read to him again that passage about confession; he says abruptly, "Is n't it enough to confess to God?" "I suppose we should confess to the person we have wronged/' said I; " a ' private wrong can be privately acknowledged.' "Suppose confessing a sin brings much lasting sorrow upon other innocent and happy persons?" "That would be hard; but He that covereth his sin shall not prosper. For myself, I could n't have any sin lie heavily on my conscience for years. I should be acting a lie. There's a sense of justice in:the breast that must be satisfied, or peace never can come." TOGETHER. 227 "Peace, peace never come," he repeated after me slowly. It was a subject he broached so often, there seemed something he wanted to sav; but he would take out those miniatures and be looking at them a long, long time, and then turn his face to the wall and sigh and lie silent. I thought the man had a sensitive conscience, and some mis- take or error troubled him. His integrity was so rigid or exacting, any duty undone, or fault done, would trouble him, as he lay there with nothing to do but think. That night he was very restless. - tossed, and moaned, and groaned, and talked. Once he said, "It will kill my poor wife, and my child - my child, how can she bear it!" and then some moments after he said quite audibly, "It must be done," and then he raved about the country-- he said "God give victory." He never talked so but that one night. I remember a little thinag that happened that morntng while we were talking. One of the men was going to kill a little fly that was buzzing behind him on the window, and General Emberton said, "George, don't kill it. Never take life if you can avoid it. Life is dear and precious, even an insect's little life." A few days after, some one handed him a paper. He looked. at-the news from the seat of war, and turning the sheet over, something suddenly arrested his attention; he grew pale as if overcome by sudden faintness. I thought he might have seen the death of some old friend. In the afternoon I read to him the 121st Psalm, -- I will lift up mine eyes to the hills." He listened as if the words were soothing music.' I gave him a Bible with a leaf turned down at the Psalm. That day I was suddenly called away from the hospital. I gave the orderly some money to procure some comforts for some of the men. He handed me a five-dollar gold-piece as lie took some of my bills, and said, 1"Perhaps you 'd like to keep-this; gold is so refreshing to the eyes now." I took the coin, looked at it, and started. I said, "Where did you get this?" He said, "One of the men before he died left me some money for his wife. There was one five-dollar piece with the money. I had one of my own, and I may have given that to his wife, instead of this one. I noticed afterwards that the coin was marked. I think it must be the one the man left." Yes, the money was marked; and as I held it in my hands, I was quite sure it was one of those marked gold-pieces, of which my father had ten in his purse thlat night he was robbed and then murdered I page: 228-229[View Page 228-229] 228 TOGETHER. "I may take tie gold-piece to John Rankin's wife, if J can find her," said I. A strange thrill came over me as I held the coin in my hand. I seemed to hear my father's voice once more, as. he said, "Child, child, take this money, and get- as beautiful frames as you like for the pictures." But I must hurry away. I am to be seated in the cars in twenty minutes. I look back a moment. I see General Ember- ton looking earnestly at me. I go up to his bed, and he says tas he takes my hand, "God bless you, Miss Louise, I wish I could do you some great good!"Tears were in his eyes as he said, "I would save you any grief, God knows I would!"I pass oilt of the hospital-door, and look back once more. General Emberton has raised himself up, is leaning his head on his hand; his hair is brushed off of his right temple. I see a scar, -a little, clearly defined singular scar. I have seen that scar before; but where or when I can't just now remember, my thoughts are in such a whirl, -so many events have been crowded into the last few days. On my way to the cars I saw a fine-looking woman and a beautiful girl, and a young man whllom from the description I supposed was the future husband of Annie, General Emberton's daughter. I knew they were;his wife and daughter, from their resemblance to those miniatures.' I thought of the meeting, and wished Hcould be there. Poor man! he never could put his right arm around them again, and the tears came as I thought of it. But my thoughts are so ab- sorbed in my own affairs, General Emberton, his wife, and daullgh- ter all pass out of my mind like so many fleet, faint shadows. There is a paper in my pocket. , I take it out and read it. This paper has called me peremptorily away. I aln summoned to attend court as a witness. The defendant is James Raden, and this is the indictment, which is in the paper I hold in my hand, - ' Whereas James Raden did make an assault, and that the said James Raden a certain pistol, of the value of five shillings, then and there loaded and charged with gunpowder and one leaden bullet, which pistol he, the said James Raden, in his right 1iand then and there had and held, to, against, and upon the said Hugh Grenville, with leaden bullet aforesaid, so, as aforesaid, shot, dis- charged, and sent forth out of the pistol aforesaid, by the said James Raden, on and upon the face of the said Hugh Grenville, a little below the right eye, one mortal wound of the depth, &c." TOGETHER. 229 This is a part of the indictment of James Raden for my father's murder. I am the only living witness. How strange that this morning I should have one of those marked gold-pieces put in my hand! The trial was put off some days. I went one morning to the prison. Something impelled me to go to that cell, and look through the grating, face to face with my father's murderer. I passed out of the examination-room, and across that iron bridge, on the side of which in large letters is printed "The Brid ge of Sighs." To that unhappy man who crossed it a few days Since, and now lies in yonder cee it was a bridge of sighs! Alas, he has made life to me, - manyi weary step as I walk along, - a bridge of sighs. What motive prompted? what malignant cruelty urged him to such a deed? I walk slowly over that bridge, and along the narrow corridor, passing cell after cell. I read on the list the name of James Raden, waiting trial for the murder of Hugh Grenville. I comne to,his cell at last. I look in that narrow, cheerless room. Down the aperture above comes the unwilling, dim light, as- if turned aside from its clear, radiant course, to struggle into that lonely, gloomy cell. There 's a narrow bed in the corner, and hack on the wooden seat sits the man, his face so turned that he does n't see me as I look in. He is of middle height, a mild-looking man, of little character or energy in ex- pression, and he is reading. It is the leaf of Wan old Bible. He does n't look like a cruel or bad man; yet that is James Raden. At last I meet his eye. I shrink from the thougaht that he will feel that I am a stranger, come to stare rudely at him as a suspected murderer; but his eye looks calmly into mine, sadly, but not like a desperate villain. Many faces are outside in the free air, with a darker look in the eye. I go slowly along, look- ing into some of the cells; and at last I pass his cell again.. I can't see his face; he is lying on that hard narrow bed; his hand hangs listlestly by his side, and I can't help seeing how white and thin it is. Grief or remorse may have preyed upon his mind, and he looks like one ill with consumption. I pass on and look back again. There's a woman by his cell now, looking in, and I remem- ber now, as I passed in, I saw the woman who sits by the entrance to search the pockets of ladv-visitors, search her pocket; but she stands a long time by that cell, and I hear her, as I pass out, say in a choked, kind voice, "Keep a good heart, James." I know she loves him - yes, she is his wife. Once I hear him speak and call her Mary, and he says in a tremulous voice, "How is little John? is he over the fever yet?" i page: 230-231[View Page 230-231] 230 TOGETHER. I pass again over the Bridge of Sighs, and Mary Raden comes about an hour after. Poor thing! she can't bear to leave James there behind in that cell. How strangely interested I am in this. poor, forlorn woman. She is neat and respectable in dress. She does n't look like a criminal's wife. "Oh, dear," I say, as I look back at that massive tomb of joy, "this life is one bridge of sighs; and some people are so hedged about, and fostered in evil, how can they be good!" There 's a bare-headed, half-clad woman just arrested andi examined, and she is going into the woman's prison, and a beautiful child follows her. Poor child! she has no other home but that! I gave my testimony in court. All I could say about the defendant was this: that the man who murdered my father'was of the medium height, I should think about the height of James Raden; that he was masked, so that I did not see his face. I testified as to the purse and gold-pieces which were produced in v court. The purse I made myself; I hadn't si k enough of the first shade of brown to finish it; I could n't match it exactly; I could tell just where I put the new shade in; thiere was a certain unique figure I had crocheted in with the beads; I should know it anywhere; I could swear positively as to the purse; and as to the marked gold-pieces, to the best of my belief they were the identical gold-pieces in my father's purse on the night of the murder. Mary Rankin testified that before her husband went to the war, this defendant, prisoner at bar, gave her husband one five- dollar gold-piece, in part payment of an old debt; that before he went away she had the coin in her hand; she would know it any- where; it was just like the nine found in the purse in prisoner's pocket; that her husband died in Pell Mell -Hospital. She also swore that said James Raden said to her husband only a week before the murder of Hugh Grenville, "That he wanted money so badly, he would be almost willing to steal it; that he thought the rich had no right to keep gold while the poor starved; that though he never would be caught in any crime, he believed he had a right to get some money in some way; his rent was due; he could get no work; wife and child sick; landlord threatened to turn him out; he was in a wretched state of mind, and almost desperate." She had accidentally mentioned the circumstance of the marked five-dollar pieces to a third person, who had seen the statement of the stolen purse and the marked money. This led to the search TOGETHER. 231 of James Raden's clothes. While he was fast asleep, his pockets were searched, and from one of them was drawn a purse con- taining nine marked five-dollar pieces. Suspicion seemed now demonstration; assistaince was called, Raden was awaked, dragged out of bed, and charged with the robbery and murder. He denied it firmly, but circumstances were too strong to gain him belief. He was secured that night, and the next day carried be- fore a neighboring, justice of the peace; the facts were deposed on oath, and Raden, having no proof but mere assertions of inno- cence to oppose them, could not be credited. He was committed to take his trial at the next term. So strong were the circum- stances known to be against him, that several of his best friends advised him to plead guilty on his trial, and throw himself on the mercy of the court. This advice he rejected, and when arraigned pleaded "not guilty." I testify that the orderly at Pell AMell Hospital gave me that particular five-dollar gold-piece, once in the possession of John Rankin, Mary Rankin's husband; that it was, to the best of my belief, one of the ten marked pieces in my father's purse on the night of the murder. Mrs. Rankin testified that this prisoner, Raden, gave her hus- band this identical gold-piece. While Mrs. Rankin was talking it began to rain outside. The judge had addressed the jury, and they were retiring. It was not more than ten minutes before the knock was heard, the signal that the jury had decided. There was a hush in that great throng, as if one listening, eager, breathless thought stirred the crowd. Darker and darker gathered the clouds outside, as the storm suddenly gained new fury, and the angry thunder muttered like a chained wild beast. The names of the jury we're called over, and the prisoner was told to hold up his right hand, as each man was asked, and gave his verdict, - " guilty." There was a flash of lurid lightning, then there was a loud crash, and then a heavy, rolling peal of thunder; thick clouds hovered over and darkened palt of the roorn where the jury stood; you could hardly see their faces. The judge said, ("James Raden, have you anything to say why sentence of death should not be passed upon you?" The prisoner arose and said,--"My cousin, William Raden, made a will a year ago, giving me, his only living relative, his property. He always had an idea he should die suddenly,- he was told so once by a fortune-teller. He was drowned six weeks ago. I was working near there, and I went immediately to iden- page: 232-233[View Page 232-233] 232 TOGETHER. tify the body. I found that purse, with the gold-pieces in it, in his pocket; don't know how he obtained it; he always had money enough. He gave me one gold-piece three weeks before he was, drowned; that was the one I paid to Johnd Rankin in part pay- ment of a debt I owed him. I have been discouraged many a day; it is hard the rich have more than they want, and the poor work hard and have so little. I suppose I may have said so. I felt desperate sometimes, when, my wife and child were sick, and' I had n't a cent in my pocket, but I never comnmitted any crime. I do solemnly say I am innocent." "That 's a good story, trumped up by some lawyer," whispered more than one man in the crowd to his neighbor, as James Raden i sit down. "It is a good place to find the gold in a dead man's pocket; dead men tell no tales." No one believed the story; cir- cumstances were too strong against the prisoner. The judge said, "James Raden ;" the prisoner looked hopelessly, steadily at the judge. There was a stir in the crowd, a breathless hush-- some one was coming! The judge paused a moment, as a man pressed through the people, with an armless sleeve hanging at his right side; pale, trembling, yet firm, he pressed on; he took his stand by the prisoner. I turned and looked at the man's haggard face. It was General Emberton! He said, in a low, husky voice, as he stood there facing the gazing, unsympathetic crowd:-- "Gentlemen of the Jury, the prisoner at the bar is not guilty! ' The heavy clouds which had almost darkened the court-room suddenly seemed to break and roll away, and as the light burst -in on the faces of the jury, I could see they all turned to this one man, with an eager, astonished look. General Emberton paused a moment, as if the words almost choked him, and then, in a loud, clear, resolute voice, he said, "I am your prisoner; I murdered Hugh Grenville. The Judge Supreme has suntinoned me to appear before you, and this is his indictment,--' Whoso covereth his sins shall not prosper.' I committed that deed, which a moment after I would have given my life to have revoeld. This murderous right arm Heaven has executed!" and he ald up his armless sleevie. "I stand here convict 'I refer you to this criminal statute: 'A free and voluntary ce ssion of guilt, made by the defendant, whether under examinat Binbefore magistrates or otherwise, if duly made and satisfactorily proved, is sufficient at once to war- rant a conviction, without any corroborating evidence aliundes.'" There was a breathless stillness in the crowd; then a woman, trembling with tearful agitation, pressed through the multitude. TOGETHER. 233 All instinctively made way for her. She rushed into tile prison- er's box, threw her arms around Jafnes Raden's neck, sobbing out, c" I knew you were innocent, James ! If they 'd hung you, I'd always known you were innocent! "_ The poor man was over- come and cried like a child. As James and Mary Raden went out of court, there was a rainbow in the sky, bright and beautiful. " God put that there for us, John," said Mary, still sobbing in the excess of her excite- ment at this strange transition from despair to hope. And now, as I looked into General Emberton's face, his hair brushed back from his forehead, I saw that scar again, and I was sure it was the same scar on the left temple that man had who caught and chained my father's dog, and-saved my life. Nothing else could have made me recognize the man, he had so changed; his hair was so gray. Besides, I had no distinct recollection of the man's features. I watched Noble, and did n't pay tnuch attention to the man. Yes, he saved my life at the peril of his own, and murdered my father. I always thought I could kill my father's murderer! Across the Bridge of Sighs went General Emberton, and the iron door closed upon him, and he sat on that low seat, where a few hours ago James Raden sat. I thoogaht of the miniatures, and I knew when that cell-door shut, that light, and hope, and joy would be shut out from three hearts forever. James Baden's Bible was in the cell still; it lay open at the words, --Prov. xxviii. 13, - He that, covereth his sins shall not prosper, but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them, shall find mercy.) There were tears on the pa>g. The men at the hospital had all called me Miss Greenville. It was a trifling mistake. I never cared to correct it; but on the day I left I said to the orderly something about any letters or packages coming to Miss Grenville during my absence. This was the first time General Emberton thought of my being a Gren- ville. Then the truth flashed upon him that I was Hugh Gren- ville's daughter. He wanted to see me. I went to his cell. He sat on the straw pallet, with his face buried in his hands, and he said, without looking up,-' Can yon forgive me for the grewt wrong I have done you, my faithful kind nurse ? Had I known who you really were, I could never have borne to see you watching over me so faithfully, It would have crushed me, had I known it then, and now you must hate me," and the strong man burst into tears. page: 234-235[View Page 234-235] 234 TOGETHER. I "I hated and cursed my father's murderer once," I said, "but now I forgive you. If' Gd has forgiven you I can," and I knelt by his side and prayed, as I never prayed before, that this poor broken-hearted inan might come up out of the shadow of tflis dreadful death, white-robed and ransomed. There was room in Heaven where his poor blood-stained soul could enter. I told him of God's great love and free pardon. And at last-he told me his storly. "I was an only child, idolized and indulged by father and mother. I have heard ever since I was a child my thther say this, -' The Grenvilles are rich, the Embertons are poor. The Gren- villes made the Embertons poor. All the gold the Grenvilles ever have they owe to us. Hugh Grenville's father wronged my father out of an honest fortune, and every dollar Hugh Grenville's son now has, every cent he ever puts in his purse, was honestly, lawfully, rightfully yours.' "Only a week before my fatherdied, he said to me, ' Charles, remember if it had n't been for old Hugh Grenville, I should leave you a fortune. Hate him for my sake. I would n't murder a child of his, but I would like to meet him in battle and kill him; yes, kill him. I would be afraid to meet Hugh Grenville now. I might, yes, I might stab him. It was not enough to have robbed me by fraud of two thirds of my estate, but he taught me to gamble, and then I gambled away the rest; and I have walked beside his elegant house, a pennyless pauper. I have seen him ride in my own carriage; and he has taunted me for my poverty. "My father died and made me promise solemnly to avenge his wrongs. He told me before he died, that a Grenville had killed my grandfather in a duel, and that your father became a Judge instead of him; that, but for your father, he would- have been a Judge of the Supreme Court. To aggravate all, the woman my father loved passionately, your father married. My poor father had a kind, genial nature; the only bitter element in his character seemed this hatred of the Grenvilles. It was fostered and cherished in his young heart by his father. "I lived to become at one time very poor. I never gambled but once-; then I was desperate. I lost the little all I had left. That day I saw your father, Hugh Grenville, pay that money. I saw himn count the gold, and at night I was desperate. My wife was very ill. I loved her devotedly. I had been insulted by my landlord for my inability to pay him. He said I owed him over three months' rent, and must leave the hloulse imnmediately. My wife was TOGETHER. 235 too delicately reared, so was my daughter, for struggle orprivation. You know the rest. Under your father's pillow was a revolver. I knew it; he was an unerring marksman. I could not retreat by the way I came, through the window. He would certainly have fired. Your father put his hand on his revolver; the doors were fasten- edl; I could not attempt retreat without risking my life; I fired, and a moment after I would have given my life to have recall- ed the life I had taken. Since then I have prospered. I have earned money of my own, been a good citizen, husband, and father. I have served my country faithfully; I have been praised by the world; and yet I was a murderer. Love for my an- gelic wife, my lovely daughter, - fear of ruining their lives, hope, and happiness, - kept me firom giving myself up to- justice; but your conversation with me, your reading the Bible in the hospital, enabled me at last to resolve to make a full confession. I wrote it on paper, and as soon as I should get well enough I resolved to let justice take its course. But finding nryself slowly recovering, I sent the letter with the confession, and my intention to give myself up to justice as soon as I was ab e to leave the hospital, to Judge Hornton. I sent it one Wednesday morning. The Judge may have been out of town, and so the letter did n't promptly reach him. But the next dy I saw in the news- paper an account of the accident by which part of Wednesday's mail was lost, and many letters drowned. The same paper had in it an account of the trial of John Raden for the murder of your father. "It was a satisfaction to me, that after the trial the Judge did receive my long-delayed letter, written before the trial. "The men in the hospital called you Miss Greenville, and it was not until the day you left that I found out your name was Gr-enville. Then the wrong I had done you, my good, kind nurse, my faithful friend, who had tried to show me of a holier life above, a better world, almost broke my heart. You were Hugh Grenville's daughter, -- you the only living witness of the great crime of my life,--my only crime! I never stole before; and since I have clothed many naked, and fed many hungry; I have given water - to many a dying rebel, as we call them; but there 's no atone- } ment! Justice demands my life! - "The surgeon at the hospital said I had an organic disease of I the heart; it had been coming on for three years; I would prob- ably live many years; might die any time. And I have been so B afraid lest death might come before I had confessed my crime. I i page: 236-237[View Page 236-237] 236 TOGETHER. have never faltered, never wavered a moment in my intention to ',confess the murder. If it had been right to have had my daughter married first! She was to have been married on the day now appointed for my execution." And the man sobbed as a man only can sob. I am going back to the hospital. I can't stay here, and wait the day of that execution. It was the very day appointed for Annie Emberton's marriage.+ The lovers had talked about that day months ago. I have done General Emberton all the good I could. "It is one of the wrongs nobody ever can right," I say. Poor man! he believes God has forgiven him; and yet he fears that all through eternity this memory will torture him,-"I have murdered a man, and I was hung on earth; my robe in heaven will be stained, stained with mortal blood." I read to him, over and over, "f Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be white as wool." "Oh dear, "I say to myself, " he was a murderer once, but he is n't a murderer forever for that one hour's crime. Now he would 'nt take the life of the tiniest insect, nor wound by the lightest word the feelings of a sensitive girl. He is n't a murderer now; it is hard to have him hung, - such a good, great soul as he is now. How hard to punish a man for a crime committed once, now hated and repented of. Can't he save his soul alive, now he doeth that which is lawful and right?" . . Je TOGETHER. 237 CHAPTER XXXT. THE SHADOW CROWNED. "Thy gentleness hath made me great." - PSALM xviii. 35. "He shall find joy and a crown of gladness, and she shall cause him to inherit an everlasting name." - EcCLESIASTICUS xv. 6. I AM back at the hospital again. I have been reading about those starving prisoners. I can't have it, I say; I can't endure it, to have those brave fellows stay there and starve to death. I start out anrid travel and talk, and talk and travel, and pull all the red tapes and wires I can, at Washington and Richmond, for I have influence, no matter how or where, with authorities under both governments. The little I do, I do under the name of Laurence Greenleaf. I do succeed at last in getting a few of those poor fellows exchanged; and like an eager, impatient child, who wants to see immediate Effect tread on the heels of Cause, I keep asking, "When will they be here?" I am in a great hurry to try the virtues of my chicken-tea on so well-deserving patients. A contraband brings me a letter. It has been delayed some days. I should have received it last Saturday; it is from Authur. He will come in ten days, to take me home, he says. It is a short letter, but full of soul and brimming with heartfelt, tender, devoted trust in me, and bright, sweet hopes for the future. His enthusiastic love doubles and vastly magnifies the few good qualities I may have, and invests me with so many virtues I do not have. How can I help loving him! Beneath the shadow of his great love I Dan nestle safely. I read the letter over twice, and hide it away under the folds of my zouave-jacket. I raise my eyes; there's an ambulance at the door. I see a very slight shadow in the mirror opposite me of a human head and figure; the face is turned from me. I look again. There stands by the window the faintest shadow of a living man I ever saw. He is lp page: 238-239[View Page 238-239] 238 TOGETHER, looking out at that ambulance at the door; the loyal uniform hangs in loose folds about his limbs. I go forward, walk towards the shadow. As I approach it, it moves, turns, confronts me, opens its arms, and folds tne in a close, shadowy embrace; the pale lips move and whisper as the arms clasp mine, "Laurence Greenleaf!" and I can feel beating close beside mine the living Ernest Heart. I start, and sigh a deep, strange, sweet sigh, as my tears fall fast on his face, like rain. I should have-fallen, but for the firm, close clasp of those shadowy arms. "Poor prison-shadow!"I say, as I meet it now, face to face. Dim, ethereal as it is, the heart beats, and I look Into those eyes whose deep, beautiful light and fire no prison could starve or dim; and yet, I almost fear to take my eyes off the face, lest the shadow should vanish into air again. We are together, together at last; how -delicious the word,- "And, crushing some delirious cry , Against each other's lips, we clung Together silent, while the sky Throbbing with sounds around us hung. "O happy hush of heart to heart! O mnplment molten through with bliss! O love! delaying long to part That first, last, individual kiss, "Wherein two lives on glowing lips Hung clasped, each feeling fold on fold, Like daisies closed with crimson lips, That sleep about a heart of gold. "Was it some drowsy rose that moved? Some dreaming dove's pathetic moan? Or was it my name from lips beloved? And was it thy sweet breath, mine own, "That made me feel the tides of sense O'er life's low levels rise with might, And pour my, being down the immense Shore of some mystic Infinite? "As some idea, half-divined, With tumult works within the brain Of desolate genius, and the mind Is vassal to imperious pain, "For toil by day, for tears by night, Till, in the isphere of vision brought, -Rises the beautiful and bright Predestined, but relentless thought: U So, gathering up the dreams of years, Thy love dqoth to its destined seat Rise sovran, through the light of tears - Achieved, accomplished, and complete!" tOGETHER. 239 X I forget the flash of the diamond on my hand; I hear not thp l rustle of the folded letter in my bosom. I forget everything but my tearful, pitiful, delicious joy!"We are together!"The debt is cancelled now, I think, as I remember how he saved my life once. I may have saved his now. In my ceaseless, resolute efforts to save others, I have unconsciously rescued one I mourned as dead. I saved him from starvation. He was the first of the four taken i out of that ambulance at the door. Overcome by fatigue and fasting, he is soon lain on, a bed in the hospital. I think I shall make better chicken-tea now than I ever did. i I wait till afternoon, when he is a little refreshed by food and j rest; and I open that book and read a page from his chapter of i consolation. He says nothing, but I see two tears silently steal out from under the drooping lashes, and a smile is breaking on his r lips. I go to him, lay the book - his "Aureola "- on his pillow, right over his head, and I say, "Poor, starved king, receive thy crown! there have been fifty thousand copies sold," I say, in a low voice. He whispers, "Stoop down and kiss me." He clasps his arms around my neck and says, faint and slow, "' So shall the knowledge of wisdom be unto thy soul; when thou hast found it, then there shall be reward, and thy expectation shall not be cut off. Forsake her not, and she shall preserve thee; love her, and she shall keep thee; she shall bring thee to honor when thou dost embrace her. She shall give to thine head/an ornament of grace ; a crown of glory shall she deliver to thee.' "I was almost starved to death," he said, " and you have saved me, and have come to deliver to me Fame's crown of glory." I read him to sleep at last with one of his own sweet songs, ] and then I laid the book on his pillow again. He looks, as he sleeps, like one of those pictures of sleeping martyrs, and no painter could enhalo his brow with a more beautiful circle of glory than that "Aureola" on his pillow. As I stand a moment and look at that dear, noble head, I say, "How doth the crown lie there upon his pillow." The shadow is crowned, - -my prison-shadow! Poor martyr hero t! wistful yearning comes over me, a tender pity for his great sufferings; I could clasp him to my heart. I stoop down and softly kiss his forehead. I watch him a few moments as he sleeps. He is restless; he whispers something. There is a smile on his lips. He is dreaming; he whispers again. I catch the words as I bend over and listen, - "' Jubilate domine ' her every look doth show, And ' gloria' is writ upon the brightness of her brow." page: 240-241[View Page 240-241] 240 i TOGETHER. I don't believe he is really-asleep ; but in that state between waking and sleeping, when pleasant thoughts come and go like sweet birds' in the soul' windows, and nestle in the branches of memory; the oars of the Will are laid aside, and the soul floats along, like a half-folded water-lily on the tide of dreams. I look once more at the calm, serene forehead, and I think how I first saw it by a Greenwood grave. There's "Gloria" written upon its brightness. My heart is a palimpsest now; it has been twice prepared, and each time has been written beneath all else, Ernest Heart. How many writings there are on the heart! On the bed by Ernest is a book. It is Hugh Miller's "Testimony of the Rocks." It is almost the only book here. It belongs to one of the officers. - There is a scrap of paper lying between the leaves, on which is some writing in a lead-pencil. It is Ernest Heart's hand- writing. I read it; it is this: "God help us! how few of us speak out the deepest, mightiest thoughts, hidden deep and hidden long in the ages of the heart; yet ever shall be awanting some testimony of these spirit-rocks, these mighty griefs and sculpturesque thoughts, rising like Egyptian obelisk, or Assyrian frieze, with their weird figures stalking across life's granite, charged with strange symbol and deep mystery. Some upheaval of passion, or deluge of sor- row may start out of the blank depth of a by-gone eternity some stone-pervaded fossil, locked up in the rock of the heart for- ever,-sweet lost loves and withered hopes, gigantic flora, dead individuals, and dead creations, - how they gather in the debris of the past! how they will gather in the sown seed of the future!" I go back over the way, put on the blue dress I wore the last time I saw Ernest Heart. Why do I remember everything I ever wore, each time I met him, -at;Greenwood, at Pleasant- ville, at church, and at Blanche Page's death-bed? As I slip off my jacket Arthur's letter falls on the floor. The flash of that diamond, clear, transparent, pure, is like the gleam of a dagger to my aching heart; the rustle of that letter is like the tramp of armed feet, hurrying to starve and storm the castle of my beleaguered soul. I sit down in my chair and sob, as I never sobbed before. The dearest earthly wish I ever had has been fulfilled. I have -been clasped close to that Ernest Heart; and come what might, I wildly, madly said, when he first went forth to battle-fields, I would be happy w'0th his heart beating by mine. TOGETHER. 241 But must this great sorrow come with it? There I can see, lying in that little open drawer, the cards with my name, "Louise Grenville," engraven on one, and "Arthur Glenstein" on the other. They are tied together with a little knot of white ribbon; and so, as Arthur wrote in this last letter, were our two lives to be bound together by Fate's indissoluble tie. Yesterday I liked to look at these cards; I liked'to tie them together. And there is the other card. I smiled as I looked at it yesterday, and I thought how fondly and proudly I would walk, up the aisle of that beautiful church, leaning on Arthur's noble arm. I hold the card in my hand; 't is beautifully engraven, -- GRACE CHURCH, NEW YORK, TUESDAY EVENING, DECEMBER 8, AT 8 O'CLOCK. These cards will be sent out ten days after Arthur returns. "Dear, dear Arthur!"I say, "I cannot give pain to thy noble heart. Love, honor, pity bind me to thee; but Ernest Heart, mourned, missed, dead, but alive again, has no claim upon me; yet life, death, eternity bind me to him. I have seen him coming up from the shore of death; we have clasped hands and hearts to- gether." How I grieve. At last I think I 'll never marry any one. I always did believe God would lead me out of every obstacle, if I only trusted in Him; but how can Providence direct now, when these two roads of duty meet and divide? Duty stands at the right and left of my heart's Eden, brandishing a flaminga sword, turning every way and keeping me out of Love's Para- I dise. Honor binds me to Arthur; but the prison-shadow rests on my heart. I cannot tell Ernest now about this diamond on J my hand, these cards in the drawer, and that last letter of Arthur's. He might say, - Keep the promise: wear the ring; ' but Ernest is too ill now to be excited by anything, and I do not like to write to Arthur. How glad, how very glad I was to meet this poor prison-shadow. The Doctor says Ernest will probably get well; but any sud- den excitement might kill him. Suppose I had married Airthur, and had met Ernest then! What then? and I shuddered. I sit up all night and look out on those clear, cold stars. All help and cheer are as far away from me as are those pitiless, tearless stars. In the morning I go again to the hospital. I try to hide my I grief, and sit and read to Ernest. He cannot bear to have that j book out of his sight. I could not have had any surprise better j 16. - i b page: 242-243[View Page 242-243] 242 ,TOGETHER. fitted to hasten his convalescence than the unexpected sight of this blue-covered book, with the whrd in its clear golden type written on the back, 4 Aureola." Little his weary eyes and deso- late heart thought to come from prison's dreary shadows, to find in the hospital's cheerless home his great hope wreathed and: crowned. I do not forget my other old friends. I sit and talL and read to them till the day wears away. I shuddered as Ernest told me some of his tragical-experience there. His comrades saw him fall, and thought he was killed, and he was so reported; but he was picked up by the enemy, and taken prisoner; and he was so starved he believed he could have eaten the body of a dear child, had one lain dead by his side. He loathed the miserable crusts of corn-bread he had so long eaten. He had fared hardly, suffered great hunger; but at last, without food of any kind, save a few drops of wine and water, he grew weary and sleepy, and slept for hours. The fourth day he was sick, sleepy, hungry; then ravenous, then sick, then mad, and at night he lay down, hoping to die before morning. These pangs of hunger, these paroxysms of appetite were sharp and severe, like death itself. He could not leave his bed; at last hun- ger became a errible disease. "I saw," said Ernest, "- the dead, six or seven in one night, taken away, and I knew they were starved to death; and I could have eaten the flesh from my own right arm for dear life's sake. Then help came, but I can hardly think now, without fainting, of those violent fits of hunger, those long paroxysms of pain; You, Laurence Greenleaf, raised me from the dead!" - "I saw startling instances of individual suffering, and horrid pictures of death from protracted sickness and semi-starvation. Self-respect was gone, ambition gone, most of the men were half- clad and covered with filth and vermin, -many of them when I left beyond all reach of medical skill. Thousands, under a treat- ment of systematic abuse, neglect, and semi-starvation, will be per- manently broken down. "I never shall forget one day; some of the thinnest and frail- est of us were called out. We thought we were to be exchanged. Some one had told us so. We said good-bye to the rest, and went out calmly and hopefully. But I was told to hold the box, as names were to be drawn for execution. Three of us were to be hung, and we were to draw the-numbers. The transition of feel- ing was too great, from hope to -despair. I drew my own num- ber. We were to be executed the next day. TOGETHER. 243 it All that long, long night we looked death in the face. How my hand trembled as I held that box. Tears filled my eyes, sobs choked me as I looked into the face of one of my fellow-martvrs. Hie was a young husband, and all that night he talked of his wife and little one, whose miniatures he would frantically kiss, over and over again. "Morning came. The President had sent word that if one of us were touched, somine rebel officers, confined in a Union prison, should immediately be executed. We were put into the dungeon, and our lives spared. But since that I have seen 150 bodies waiting passage to the 'dead-house,' to be buried with those who died in hospital. The average of deaths during the earlier months was thirty a day; at the time I left the average was over 130, and one day the record showed 146. "We could at any time point out many for whom such a fate was inevitable, as they lay or feebly walked, mere skele- tons. In some cases -the inner edges of the two bones of the arms, between the elbow and the wrist, with the intermediate blood-vessels, were plainly visible when held toward the light. The ration in quantity was perhaps barely sufficient to sustain life, and the cases of starvation were generally those whose stomachs could not retain what had become entirely indigestible. For a man to find, on waking, that his comrade by his side was dead, was an occurrence too common to be noted. "The mental condition of a large portion of the men was melancholy, beginning in despondency and tending to a kind of stolid and idiotic indifference. Many spent much time in arous- ing and encouraging their fellows ; but hundreds were lying about, motionless, or stalking vacantly to and fro, quite beyond any help which could be given them within their prison-walls. These cases were frequent among those who had been imprisoned but a short time. "Letters from home very seldom reached us, and few had any means of writing. In the early summer a large batch of let- ters - five thousand we were told - arrived, having been accu- mulating somewhere for many months. These were brought in by an officer, under orders to collect ten cents on. each. Of course most were returned, and we heard no more of them. One of my companions saw among them three from his parents, but he was unable to pay the charge. According to the rules of transmission of letters over the lines, these letters must have already paid ten cents each to the rebel government. page: 244-245[View Page 244-245] 244 TOGETHER. "I carry this message from one of my companions to his mother: ' My treatment here is killing me, mother; but I die cheerfully for my country.' ("Some attempts were made to escape, but wholly in vain, for if the prison-walls and guards were passed, and the protecting woods reached, the blood-hounds were sure to find us out." As Ernest told me all this, the words came again into my mind, --"With long life will I satisfy him." "(How did you know i was Laurence Greenleaf?" said I. "I was quite sure, some time before I went away,' said Ernest, u that you were an accomplice, acquaintance, friend, or relative of the mysterious Laurence; but not until I had been in the army about three weeks did I find out that you were really Laurence. I had my little English and Greek Lexicon with me, and one day one of the men? a private in Company-A, happened to see it among my baggage. He took it up, looked it over, saw the sentence written with a lead-pencil in Greek on the blank leaf at the end, and he said, ' How did you come by this book? I sold that book. I was a clerk in one of those stores in Nassau Street, where they sell old and rare books, and a gentleman who had re- cently failed brought that book in, with several others, for us to sell, and only the next day I sold it. I know the book by that sentence written on the blank leaf; besides, it is the only book of the kind we ever had.' : "' Who did you sell it to?' said 1. "' I sold it to a young, fair lady, - Miss Grenville, who had bought a good many books of us. It was the 14th day of the morithb. I know, because I had to sign an important document on that day.' "I remember it, too,' said 1, 'for it was my birthdays' C"Then I was sure who Laurence, was. I read his name in the directory of my heart; and found the Greenleaf only among the- list of Grenvilles. I was overpowered with strange 'gratitude and joy, and I longed ever after to come back and see you, and tell you how much I owed to you." I talk with Ernest until dusk, and then I go back to watch all night with my sleepless, cureless grief. I sit in the chair by the window, until, one by one, the stars are all hidden by threatening clouds, and the sky is like one big, black pall. The stars:are gone, the night-wind mutters hoarsely, gloomily; the heavy drops beat against the-windows; the house rocks and shakes, the bed reels, TOGETHER. 245 and the wind shrieks and rages so, I am almost sure I hear hoarse human voices, complaining and whispering in the vacant cham- bers over my head. I can see no lights within or without. The street-lamps were not lighted to-night. I go to my bureau to light the gas. As I try to light the burner, a sudden gust of wind seems to put out the match. I feel in the little safe; there is not another match there. I sit up all night in the dark, no light within or without, - no light but the gleam of that diamond on my finger. My heart moans and the wind moans. In three more days Arthur will come. Yes, he will come, and I shall marry him, and the wind seems to mock me, and, echoa, marry him. I have gone through so much excitement and griefthe last two days, I am weak and nervous. All my old girlish ideas rush back to me, in one turbulent tide of tempes- tuous thought, as if dashing against and goading at their will the shore of my soul. Conscience talks, Memory, talks, Love talks; Regret speaks lowest, longest, and last, as she always 'does. Con- science says, engagement is as sacred as marriage; a broken en- gagement shadows and dims a whole earthly life. So I talked to the girls at school, who would say to me so often, --' Pshaw! men's hearts never break." Then I remembered how Mr. Henry Winall flirted with Jane, captivated Mary, was fascinated with Susan, was irretrievably in love with Margaret but wooed Helen, -and married Fanny after all. He had a lock of each of these fair ones' hair, of every shade from raven to gold; each given in the flush of Love's young dream. He could n't return them. How could he telltpositively the rightful owner of each? They were all fortunate in escaping the poor remnant of a man's heart, all but his poor wife. Their loss was her worthless gain. He kept the locks of hair ; he could n't throw them away ; they were mementos of Love's laurels, --" verdant green." But these thoughts were only a brief, strange, wild, half-crazy episode in that longk long night's brooding over my! own griefs. The night was very dark; the wind never ceased all night; it lulled a little towards morning. I thought. I heard the faintest call,- "Louise, Louise!"I went to the window. I could see nothing, There was that dim, gray, dull light one sees as a cloudy morning slowly steals out from a cloudy night. It was one of those nights which break and fade at last, but no sunrise comes, no cheerful dawn. I knelt down and prayed for myself and for Arthur, as I had dahe every morning for weeks. But I go to the window, and I see :the walls of the hospital where page: 246-247[View Page 246-247] 246 TOGETHER. Ernest lies, and I long to comfort him,-- to cling to him. No E matter how I cover it up, or bury, or stifle, or drown, or I starve, or crush the feeling, it is there. Down in the bot- ;: tom of my heart, cut and carved deep in its fleshy tablet, is the name of Ernest. It is the last word I read at night, the first I see when morning comes. Whenever I stop thinking about anything, then I see the word Ernest; and, I cannot help it, it -grieves me more to see himn suffer than it would to see everybody in the world beside him suffering. If all the world but him must live in one world, and he shuld stand alone on some other visible earthly world, I would gladly leave all earth beside to go and stand by him on some lonely rock of that loneliest world. I'd -rather live with him in one little, humble room, than to dwell in a palace with any other man I have ever seen. There, that is the secret of my heart! : Anguish has wrung it out. And until I can take the blue out of A the sky I can't take this love out of my heart. I remember now i every word he ever spoke, every smile, each tone of his voice. I Oh! if love would come and go at our willing! but it is like a perfume, secret, subtle. Take it from one place it steals in another; try to crush it, like bruised, broken sandal-wood, the edge of the steel with which you would stab or crush Love, will have its sweet, genuine, deathless essence. But yet I ought, I must, I will marry Arthur. I can't disappoint him so, and I will try to make him a good wife. Perhaps after a while I can think more calmly about Ernest. This little memory of Ernest is like a stone, brown and small, crusted with mosses and lichens, and with tufts of heather, and harebell, and fern nestling in their rifts, while all around it "my heart is one bar6, bleak moorland." Early in the morning I went to the hospital. The sentry touched their caps as I passed into the main hall, through the pails, and hods, and boys. I meet Miss Bravell, and she says, '6 Won't you go up-stairs? There's been a fresh arrival in the night." I go up and through the long line of torn and shattered wrecks of humanity. They are all new, pale, sad faces. I say a few kind words to each, till I come to the last cot, where a man lies almost still. A ball has pierced his left lung, and every breath is agony. Death and life have had a severe struggle; j they have fought fiercely, for the man had a vigorous frame. The face is cold, the lips are white, and eyes are closed./ He is dying, the surgeon says, and he can't see; but he holds in his t' TOGETHER. 247 closed hand something which lie has held all night; and it is my last letter. I am glad it was loving and kind. One bitter drop, one added grief might have made still more bitter death's great How can I write it? It is my poor, dear Arthur lying there, dying, and the last of earth to him was my letter! Oh! I would gladly give my worthless woman's life to save him from death's great agony. He has tried to soothe every sorrow I ever had, and he has had to suffer here alone. I lay some fresh heliotropes on the pillow,-- the heliotropes he always loved so well,--but their sweet, subtle odor cannot reach him now. He breathes slowly, heavily. At last there comes a smile over his face; 't is the last, last smile, and the heroic figure is still! "Did he say anything?"I asked. "He said nothing all night, but very early in the morning, long, long before daylight, he called twice, ' Louise! Louise!' That was all he said; those were his last words." Poor, poor Arthur! that battle was the only one in which he fought, and he was the only one killed in his regiment. It was his first and last battle; and to-day they were all marching home, in unbroken rank, - only one left behind. Brides, mothers, sisters, waited to welcome them. I shall wear that diamond-ring always now, God helping me, I did mean to be true to him. Can I see Duty's pillar of cloud now -faithful unto the end? I cut off a lock of Arthur's beautiful hair, and send it to his mother in a letter; and I tell her, as well and gently as I can, that her boy has finished his labors, and has entered into rest. "He has fought a good fight, he has kept the faith; henceforth is laid up for him a crown." A' page: 248-249[View Page 248-249] 248 TOGETHER. CHAPTER XXXII. THE LAkST OF EARTH. "' He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down."- JOB xiv. 2. ---" there are pleasures for evermore." - PSALM XVi. 11. THE remains of Lieut. )Arthur Glenstein were conveyed to the receiving-vault of Greenwood Cemnetery yesterday. They arrived in the city on Wednesday, and were received by the ---- Company of National Guards, who promulgated the following order:-- - c NEW' YORK, November, 1862. COMPANY ORDER, NO. 7.- The members of this Company will assemble at the armory in full fatigue-dress, with overcoats and white gloves on Thursday, the 7th inst., at 11 o'clock, A. X., for the purpose of paying the last tribute of respect to our late fellow-member, Lieut. Arthur Glenstein, who died from wounds received while nobly doing his duty in the defence of his country. Members-of the regiment are invited to join us. The body will lie in state at the armory until the time appointed for the funeral. The following members are detailed for guard-duty from 7 o'clock this P. M. until 7 A. M. to-morrow: Sergeant B. H. Bisley, Corporal James E. Williams, Privates Broas, Platt, and Holmes. They will be relieved at 7 o'clock A. M. to-morrow (promptly,) by Sergeant Young, Privates Hunt, Bogardus, and Wheaton. "By order of Dayton, W. O. "Capt. HENRY B. MNTUN. "E. BROWNELL, Orderly." At the time appointed, the friends of the deceased took their last farewell of their late loyal, lamented companion. He lay in the coffin wherein he had been conveyed to the city, his features but little altered, and except the slight attenuation of the lower TOGETHER. 249 part of his face, scarcely indicating the great suffering through which he had passed. Lieut. Glenstein was on the staff of Gen. Woolston, and died October , from a wound received while rushing upon the enemy, and achieved a brilliant feat of suc- cessful daring. A reconnoissance was made by a party of cavalry. Suddenly they came upon an overpowering force of the enemy. Tlhe enemy's officer, confused by the sudden apparition, did n't know to which party the men before him belonged, - to his own side, or to the United States. He rode up within speaking distance, and said, "Whose troops are you?"Lieut. Glenstein, ever vigilant at post of danger, answered, "Union." Two shots were heard: one carried death to the enemy's officer, the-other has placed Lieut. Glenstein in an early tomb. The chaplain, who read the service over the body, said Lieut. Glenstein was the only one of their number who had fallen like a martyr for a good cause; and received the last services of the Church at his hands. The regiment paid him the last honors of a soldier's career. The coffin bore this inscription:-- LIEUT. ARTHUR GLENSTEIN. U. S. VOLUNTEERS, Died, February 4th, 1862. On its lid was the sword of the deceased, and the sword he captured from the enemy's officer who gave him his death- wound. After the service for the dead, the coffin was con- veyed to the hearse, escorted by Company G, followed by car- riages containing friends, and prqceeded to Green wood. The band of the regiment played solemn martial music along the course, till the coffin, placed in a case, was deposited in the receiving- vault of the cemetery. The comrades of Lieut. Glenstein then closed on the portals, and fired three vollies in honor of the fallen hero. Lieut. Glenstein was born in Philadelphia, July 8th, 1834, was educated partly in France, where he resided six years, and afterwards completed a course of law and science in Harvard University. He was a young man of uncommon worth and genius. As I laid the fair, fragile wreaths and crosses of snowy flowers on the coffin-lid, I could n't help thinking how many; I, page: 250-251[View Page 250-251] ' 250 TOGETHER. many flowers those still, folded hands had planted in my lonely life. Poor old Mrs. Glenstein, Arthur's mother, sits alone in her arm-chair, with Arthur's Bible open in her hands. It is her last, her only comfort now. Her soul must still niarch along life's tragic, tearful battle-field, in its fatigue-dress, till she reaches the celestial fields and wins the immortal honors of the victorious Christian soldier. She turns over the leaves and reads this verse, --"Man goeth to his long home, and the mourners go about the streets." She reads the 12th chapter of Ecclesiastes, - Arthur has marked the verse, -"Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was, and the spirit shall return to God who gave it." She reads each verse that Arthur has marked, as she turns over the leaves, and a tear falls on each word. She comes to this passage, which he has marked all round with a pencil. On one side of the verse is written the word "Mother," and on the other the day of the -month, - Feb. 3d. It was only the day before he died. It was the last trace of his hand, the last verse he ever read: "Thou wilt show me the path of life; in thy presence is fulness of joy; at thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore." The words are a Sweet drop of comfort to her lonely soul; she closes the book, and says over and over to her- self, "Pleasures for evermore ; dear, dear boy, that is more than I could ever give him." A sweet, calm smile, like hallowed sun- shine, beams on her face as she says, "It is well with the child, it is well." I come back from Arthur's funeral, and I take up the evening paper and I read: "The day of the execution has passed. Gen. Emberton was found lying on his bed very early that morning, dead. Death was peaceful and natural. There was no violence, no suicide. The haunted and grief-worn soul was unable longer to sustain its heavy load of anguish." "It was disease of the heart," said the physician. We knew he had such a disease. He had apparently died without a strug- gle. The miniatures were on the bed beside him, open; there was a smile on the lips, and the Bible lay open on the pillow, open at the 121st Psalm, where I had turned down the leaf; the words were marked,-"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills whence cometh my help." There was a pencil in the open Bible. Poor, weary soul! it had climbed the eternal hills at last, and was basking now in immortal dawn. TOGETHER. 251 Annie Emberton is insane. Her insanity takes this most dis- tressing type. She fancies she -has done something terrible, disgraceful, for which she must hide from every eye. Her grief is heart-aching to witness. While I sit sadly thinking of her there comes a letter from Mildred. page: 252-253[View Page 252-253] 252 TOGETHER. CHAPTER XXXIII. IRDENHURDEN. "One that was never thought of hath worn the crown." - ECCLESIASTICUS xi. 5. "RDENHURDEN, September 15th. 6 I THOUGHT, Louise, I would get a bouquet, the prettiest I could find, and send to the Doctor's wife; and one afternoon, quite late, Margaret took it round, and gave it to the lady herself. You know Margaret always goes off in such raptures about that fair, tidy little woman, so much like you, Louise. The bouquet had n't been gone long tit was just about twilight, when all the shadows come,) when some one knocked gently, and 1, thinking it was Jane, said, ' Come in ;' but it was not Jane. There was a tall shadow just behind, and then in fi'ont of me. No other manly step ever carie so silently. It was the Doctor, with those flowers in his hand. The bright fire in the grate shed such a glow on his face, there was a softer, sweeter radiance in his eye, a brighter flush on his cheek than I had ever seen before. 'I have come to bring back the flowers,' he said. ' I could not keep them; they were sent to the Doctor's wife. I have searched through every recess and nook. in parlor, chamber, and kitchen. I cannot find her there. She is so ethereal and shadowy she escapes me when- ever I try to grasp her; if I try to take her hand I only clasp a shadow. I have looked for her for years, at dawn and sunset, through city and country. She has always escaped me. I am weary and tired of journeying after her, and more weary and lonely of journeying without her. I have come here to see if you can't help me find her. I have hoped a long time that you might surely help me find her. These flowers are so beautiful I wish I could give them to her before they wither. Mildred, there is no one but you can find the gentle, loving, lovely Doctor's wife. Won't you take the flowers and give them to her? Will you tell her that no hand but hers can plant flowers in my whole life? that I TOGETHER. 253 her love would be the fairest flower in my heart, the violet, the fadeless heart's-ease of my life forever? Tell her our voices chord, and I believe our souls would chord in sweet unison.' He took my hand and said, ' Mildred, will you keep the flowers? poor little, lone lamb! how my heart ached for you once, how I longed to take you and shield you from the least rough wind ; but I could not take advantage of your helplessness and solitude, and seek then to gather and garner you into the fold of my heart; and since then you are so enwrapt in the mantle of reserve, I feared you could not love me; that your love was too bright, too good for me; but to-night I have come in spite of better judgment to tell you how my heart hungers for your love. It needs no less, it could n't ask for more. Will you keep the flowers and let me find. the .Doctor's wife?,' 4"Louise, you know how I have almost worshipped the man; that were the universe of good and gifted manhood kneeling at my feet, I would turn from them all, to the priceless treasure, the rich mine of his great heart. I would rather die for him than live for any other. As he stood there, with his earnest words, eloquent eyes, and radiant face, through my glad soul such music thrilled, --it was such a sweet surprise, it was like a jubilant anthem from some unseen choir on some sweet Sabbath of rest,-a beautiful, perpetual rainbow had spanned my spirit's sky from which no shower had fallen, no storm had-swept. It was a rain- bow without a cloud or shower, a triumphal, glorious arch over the gateway of the soul, through which young Love, wreathed and robed and crowned, might pass safely, joyously! Yes, I am to be the Doctor's wife. I took those flowers and I cried as if my heart would break for joy. I have cried alone so many times. I am as proud now as if I were to be crowned queen of the United Kingdom to-morrow; for the love of such a right-royal heart is the most rare, regal, and radiant crown a woman's brow can ever wear. I would rather be his wife, resting in the shadow of his love, than rule and reign in Fame's clearest sky, with Sappho's wreath on my head, and Orpheus' lyre in my hand. I suppose I was reserved in my manner to the Doctor, though I was never embarrassed. I met his eye frankly and fearlessly, for between myself and him I knew fate had fixed an impassable, hopeless barrier, - that little blonde lady Mairgaret always called the Doctor's wife. She is only his sister, after all. She has been en- gaged three years, and is waiting for the Doctor's wife to come before he will let her go. But I always knew, from the time he page: 254-255[View Page 254-255] 254 TOGETHER. came behind me and sang, that there was a voice in his soul that chorded with mine, and that if he had no wife I could n't help loving him. The deeps in my heart I knew would answer unto the deeps in his ; but nobody should ever know it, nor did I sup- pose if he had never-had a wife he would think of marrying poor little me; yet, had I been equal to you in position, I know my love would have found out his love. Do n't say girls never marry their ideals. I have found mine. Luke has a woman's tender heart, a poet's soul, a scholar's head, a king's dignity, and child's simplicity of manner; and then he is so skilful in; his profession, he is such a rare combination of practical and sesthetical, real and ideal! I would n't have him an inch shorter, or taller, or change the color of eye or hair, or alter the lines of those classic features, or the least varying shade of that frank, noble expression; and then men like him so enthusiastically, and man's criticism is a severe test of manhood's worth and excellence. I believe flowers are like angels. Each happy era in my life has begun with flowers. Is look back at, that hour, a -few years ago, when I was longing so to die, that I might be of no trouble or care to any one. My lips sent up such a despairing, wailing cry, that this bitter cup of life might pass from me; that I might join the band of the immortals; who need no food, no raiment, no shelter. In the future I could see only pain and poverty beckoning -me on to still gloomier shadows, and endless solitude beyond. My heart seemed shut up in a cold, dark sepulchre. Poverty and Pain, grim sentries, kept Death in and Joy out. Oh that high and cold and heavy stone of grief before my heart's door I But those flowers you sent me were the first breath of life's sweet garden of joy outside my heart's merciless wall,-its dark, dismal tomb,- and my buried heart did wake to life, as the flower-angel whispered, 'Some one thinks of thee, some one thinks of thee!' In that flower-evangel I read peace on earth, good-will to men; and the flowers were only the happy herald, the fair forerunner of the advent of that good physician, under whose care little did you think you had placed me for life! I had been so sure that the path before me I should walk alone; no one would leave Joy's great, glad, garlanded highway, to come and walk with me the lonely by-path of suffering, - me, poor and lame, - me, only a faltering stumbler, with feet bruised -with life's sharp, rough stones! "I had a dream once which I never told any one. -I dreamed it over twice. You remember-that day we went to see Hunting- don's picture of Mercy's Dream. Well, that night I dreamed that- TOGETHER. 255 I was Mercy, and that Dr. Boynthn was holding over my head, oh, such a beautiful crown; the crown was pearls, wreathed with flowers, and there was a single diamond in each fairy flower-cup. The dream seemed somehow so sacred, I could n't even whisper it over to myself. I dreamed it twice, and at last it was so vivid that whenever I closed my eyes I could see that crown, with its shining pearls and radiant flowers! "I was afraid to tell you about it. You might possibly say I was foolish to dream of a married man, and more foolish to repeat it. Last night I told the Doctor my dream;, and he said that I had always a crown round my head in his eyes, and a wreath the Aainters always put around the brow of their saints and martyrs; and after that, as I was going through the hall, I heard him singing, - "'And if any painter knew her, He would paint her unaware, With a halo round her hair.' "I think now I must have loved him all along. You know we can't herp love anything that is good and noble. - We can't help adimire a beautiful painting, with its artistic grace and glow ; how much more must we irresistibly and inevitably admire a noble living form, irradiated and illumined with a loftier grace, a more exceeding glory! i' But, Louise, I don't know,.as I think-- of- it now, that Luke ever did act quite like a married man. But I am to be married next week, and to-night Luke calls Mildred's Reception. I call it Mildred's Benefit. My heart seems like one great Academy of 5Music, illumined with thousands of lights, and garlanded with myriad flowers. The world of love seems lavished upon me, as I stand upon this happiest stage of life, with life's dark cur- tain of tears and tragedy all rolled up and away behind me. Where do you think I am writing? Luke has fitted up a room for me, for- my Reception, and to-night he brought me around to see it. So I am writing here ; the room is mine. Is n't mine a beau- tiful word? There is none to match it but thine; that is the dearest word under the stars. Luke wished me to name this new home of ours; so I called it Irdenhurden, which means, in literal German, Terrestrial or Earthen Foldage. It is our Earthly Rest. In the room Luke has fitted up for me, there is a bay-window. You know I always said I would n't want a house of my own without a bay-window. Up over the arches of the window twines the ivy,-- the real English ivy; and in page: 256-257[View Page 256-257] 256 TOGETHER. front of the window hangs a basket, filled with that pampas- grass, and intermingling vines, covered with little white and blue flowers, and in the centre you can see the blossoms of that bril- liant coral flower, the bouvardia. As I sit and write I can see on one side of me Faith and Evangeline; on the other, Night and Morning. Over the mantel is a beautiful copy of' Church's Morning among the Tropics, which I have wanted ever since I first saw it at Goupil's. Opposite it is its gentle, soft counterpart, - Sunset. Mercy's Dream is just over the piano --my piano! It is a beautiful instrument, with its rosewood frame and keys of pearl. It has great compass and strength, and sweetness and richness of tone. A piano of my own! in my wildest flights of fancy I never dreamed of owning such a treasure. There is a classic marble image in each corffer of the room, and over each a rosewood bracket, and on the brackets ivory vases of mag-. nolias and water-lilies, with'little groups of tuberoses, hyacinth, and violets. The beautiful flowers are so natural you are sure they are just gathered, till you touch their waxen petals. The carpet is of Wilton, of rarest, costhest texture; the furniture all elegant and unique in pattern and style; but the best of all is one corner, where are stowed, on little rosewood shelves, volumes of all the'best poets. That is my. poets' corner, and just beside it are piles of new music of all varieties,-- operas, duets, waltzes, songs, &c. There is a new tremulo I have been practising to- night; there is a little table near it, on which lie a new ' Eclectic,' ' Atlantic,' ' Harper,' and the ' Independent.' They all have ' Mil-e dred' written on the wrappers, and are for my benefit. There's a book-case filled with the best prose authors, and a fine variety of romances. Over the poet's corner hang portraits of Browning, Tennyson, Longfellow, and Lowell; and on each side of the booky case are portraits of Bronte, and Thackeray, Hugh Miller, an Humboldt, and other authors with whom you and I are familiar. There's a round table in .the centre of the room. You knorw I could n't do without a round table ; it is the only kind of table that has a real genial, cordial, cozy look. On it is a low dish of fresh flowers, - flowers from my conservatory; for as I write I breathe the odor of mignonette, heliotrope, and violet, as it comes from that room, with glass doors, just out of mine. Luke has hung up to-night,some fine paintings of Niagara, Trenton, and Min- nehaha. We expect to see Trenton and Niagara on our wedding- trip. , I like to look at the picture of Minnehalla. I almost fancy I TOGETHER. 257 can see the laugh in the water. Just under Hinnehaha is a - portrait of Longfellow. On the mantel is a clock, ornate and unique. There is a wreath of flowers around it, carved in bronze, and every hour a little bird comes out and sings and goes back again. So you see Time is wreathed with flowers, and a little bird tells me when the hours go by on their viewless wings. "My husband is a scholar. I want to read enough to share his I thoughts and sympathize in his tastes. On the top shelf in my bookcase is a row of Ollendorfs, French, Italian, and German. I I mean to spend an hour a day studying them. I am so thank- ful to you for so patiently teaching me Natural Science, Mathe- I matics, and French. I am ignorant now; but I might have been such a dunce and idiot, had no pillar of fire ever led me out of 278. "Beside the great rock -of trouble in earth's weary land your hand first planted flowers, and a little rill of comfort gushed forth; then it was an overflowing spring, it widened into a river of peace, flowing along through the hills of the past; and now 't is a deep, calm ocean of joy. You little thought, when you first sent me this good physician, that you were placing me under his care for life. Let it be a little flower of joy in all your life, that you sent me this dear friend. As I write and - look up and see his noble face, around that 'noblest brow and dearest' I shall always see an aureola, no other brow will ever wear for me. To-night, the happiest of my life, I write to tell you, my first friend, this sweetest verse in the Bible of my heart,--' Only Luke is with me." Mrs. Glenstein had Arthur buried at last in one of the loveliest of Greenwood dells, near the Sylvan Lake. The grass has been growing over the grave for months, and the myrtle-leaves creeping over the grass, and blue heliotropes look up as the sun shines' down, on the monument wlhere Arthur's name is carved above the words,- "At thy right hand are pleasures for evermore." I have been reading Mildred's letter to my husband--for, reader, I was married to Ernest last week; and this morning, if you had stood at the half-open door of our little parlor, you could have heard Ernest singing at the piano, - "I am a king in my own domain, And my little wife is queen, 17 , k- page: 258-259[View Page 258-259] 208 TOGETHER. And jointly over our realm we reign, - A royal couple, I ween. O1! lne'er was a happier realm, I ween, Than ours, nceath the arching sky; And never a happier king and queen Than my little wife and L." And I sing, with a full, happy heart, - "Jubilate! I am loved! And his lips at length have said it- Long since in'his eyes I read it, But I thought it could not be - Ah! what happiness for me! " Jubiiate! I am loved! Now am I like a little queen, And very pleasant 't is, I ween; Whatsoe'er I do or say Seemeth good and right alway. "Jubilate! I am loved! So dearly loved, that till I prayed, I was more than half afraid! Lord! forgive my sins and make Me pure and good for his dear sake. Let the love he beareth me Lead him -lead us both --to Thee!" I lay my hand on Ernest's arm, and look up into his face,- he is so much taller than I, -and say, "I have fit ished my story. What shall I call it?"' "Call it ' Together,"' he says. Yes, I will call it "Together,;" for Love's palimpsest, its first and last writing is- "Together." s Say for me," says Ernest, " the Bible is the best book in the world; and the best palimpsest to begin and end the last chapter of any life is this, -' Thy sun shall no more go down; neither shall thy moon withdraw itself; for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended.'" I go up into my room. On my table are some fresh violets. Ernest puts them there every morning. The early crocusses are in a little glass on the bureau, and the Pleiad sisters are sing- ing up there in the evening sky together. I kneel down, and with -a full, happy heart thank God that Ernesi; and I are to- gether. On the table are some verses, written with a lead-pencil. Ernest has been writing.- The violets are close ly the paper. I read the lines-slowly, aloud, - TOGETHER. 259 Together is the chime of stars In the blue tower above, The soft low hymn of wildwood flowers, The dearest voice of love. 'T is bridal word of kindred souls, 'T is bridal chant of even, When loving stars together walk Cathedral aisles of Heaven. Together flowers in clusters hide In earth's deep tangled wood; So loving hearts together bide Earth's mingled ill and good. Love's sweet immortelles scattered here, Toqether 'll bloom in that blest sphere. Earth's parted souls shall grieve no more, Together clasped on that bright shore. None ever sighs round that glad throne; Ah woe is me! I 'm all alone. Oh, if in all this wide, wide, weary world, the hearts that could chime their joy and chant their grief in harmony, could only beat together, Every home would be a palace called Beau- tiful, and every heart a chamber called Peace. As I learn its simple and beautiful meaning over and over every day, I think in all the heart's most imperial lexicon there is no word half so eloquent or dear as "TOGETHER." I page: 260-261 (Advertisement) [View Page 260-261 (Advertisement) ] aa NEW BOOKS And New Editions Recently Issued by CARLETON, PUBLISHER, NEW YORK. "8 BROAD WAY; CORNER OF LISPElARDD STREET. N B.--THE PUBLISHER, upon receipt of the price in advance, will send any of the following Books, by mail, POSTAGE FREE,tO any part of the United Statesa This convenient and very safe mode may be adopted when the neighboring Book. sellers are not supplied with the desired work. State name and address in full Victor Hugo. 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