The Pestilence. The Curtain wholly lifted. It was now the middle of October. “Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light, and the landscape Lay as if new created, in all the freshness of childhood: All sounds were in harmony blended. Voices of children at play—the crowing of cocks in the farm-yard, Whirr of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons, All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love.” When suddenly the Angel of Death folded his dark wings, and sat brooding over the peaceful, pleasant village of Grassmere. A terrible and malignant fever swept through the town, spreading from house to house, like the fire which consumes alike the dry grass and the bright, fresh flowers of the prairies. Old and young, husband, wife and child, were alike brought low. There were not left in all the village those able to attend upon the sick. From the churches solemnly tolled the funeral bells, as one by one, youth and age, blooming childhood and lovely infancy, were borne to the grave-yard—no longer solitary—for the foot of the mourner pressed heavily over its grass-grown paths. Still the contagion raged, until the selfishness of poor human nature triumphed over the promptings of kindness and charity. People grew jealous of each other; neighbor shunned neighbor; “Silence reigned in the streets— Rose no smoke from the roofs—gleamed no lights from the windows.” save the dim midnight lamp which from almost every house betokened the plague within. None had shut themselves up closer from fear of infection than Deacon Humphreys. His gates grew rusty, and the grass sprang up in the paths about his dwelling. And yet the Destroyer found him out, and like a hound long scenting its prey, sprang upon the household with terrible violence. First the pure and gentle Naomi sank beneath the stroke, and ere the setting of the same day’s sun, Mrs. Humphreys herself was brought nigh the grave. Like one demented, pale with agony and terror, the deacon rushed forth into the deserted streets to seek for aid. His dear ones—his wife and child were perhaps dying; where, where should he look for relief—where find some kind hand to administer to their necessities. At every house he learned a tale of wo equal to his own. Some wept while they told of dear ones now languishing upon the bed of pain, or bade him look upon the marble brow of their dead. Others grown callous, and worn-out with sorrow and fatigue, refused all aid, while some, through excess of fear, hurriedly closed their doors against him. Thus he reached the end of the village, and then the small, neat cottage of Mrs. Norton met his view, nestling down amid the overshadowing branches of two venerable elm. From the day he had almost thrust her from his gate, with cold looks and unflinching extortion, Mrs. Norton and the deacon had not met, and now the time had come when he was about to ask from her a favor upon which perhaps his whole earthly happiness might rest—a favor from her, whom in his strength and her dependence he had scorned. Would she grant it? He hesitated; would she not rather, rejoicing in her power now, revenge the slights he felt he had so often and so undeservedly cast upon her. But he remembered the sweet, calm look which beamed from her eyes, and his courage grew with the thought. Putting away the luxuriant creeper which wound itself from the still green turf to the roof of the cottage, hanging in graceful festoons, and tinged with the brilliant dyes of autumn, seemed like wreaths of magnificent flowers thus suspended, the deacon knocked hesitatingly at the door. It opened, and Mrs. Norton stood before him, pale with watching—for, like an angel of mercy had she passed from house to house, since the first breaking out of the scourge. In faltering accents he told his errand; and, O, how like a dagger did it pierce his heart, when, with a countenance beaming with pity and kindness, and speaking words of comfort, the widow put on her bonnet and followed him with fleet footsteps to his stricken home. All night, like a ministering angel, did she pass from one sick couch to the other, tenderly soothing the ravings of fever, moistening their parched lips with cool, refreshing drinks, fanning their fevered brows, and smoothing the couch made uneasy by their restless motions. Unable to bear the scene, the deacon betook him in his hour of sorrow to his closet, where all through the dreary watches of the night he prayed this cup of affliction might pass from him. His heart was subdued. He saw that like the proud Pharisee he had exalted himself, thanking God he was not as other men. At early dawn came Grace also to inquire after her suffering Naomi, and finding her so very ill, earnestly besought her mother that she might be allowed to share the task of nursing her. Mrs. Norton had no fears for herself, yet when she looked at her only and beautiful child, she trembled; but her eyes fell upon the bed where poor Naomi lay moaning in all the delirium of high fever, and her heart reproached her for her momentary selfishness. Removing the bonnet of Grace, she tenderly kissed her pure brow, and then kneeling down, with folded hands she prayed, “Thy will, O Lord, not mine be done! Take her in thy holy keeping, and do with her as thou seest best!” From that day Grace left not the bedside of her friend. On the third day Mrs. Humphreys died. Her last sigh was breathed out on the bosom of the woman whom she had taught her daughter to shun. For many days it seemed as if Death would claim another victim; yet God mercifully spared Naomi to her bereaved father; very slowly she recovered, but neither Mrs. Norton nor Grace left her until she was able to quit her bed. With the death of Mrs. Humphreys, the pestilence staid its ravages, while, as a winding-sheet, the snows of winter now enshrouded the fresh-turned clods in the late busy grave-yard. The eyes of Deacon Humphreys were opened. He became an altered man. He saw how mistaken had been his views, and that it is not the profession of any sect or creed which makes the true Christian, and that if all are alike sincere in love to God, all may be alike received. I have said this was no love tale, therefore, by merely stating that in the course of a twelvemonth Hubert Fairlie and Grace were united, I close my simple story.
WATOUSKA. A LEGEND OF THE ONEIDAS. ——— BY KATE ST. CLAIR. ——— Away, in a forest’s gloom, Where the shadowy branches wave O’er a rude and moss-grown tomb, Is an Indian maiden’s grave: None knoweth that music-haunted spot?— Save a far-off one, who forgets it not. He dreams of that silent shore?— ’Tis a holy spot to him, A solemn stillness broodeth o’er Those forest-aisles so dim; Bird-music, and wave-melody, Blend with the murmurings of the bee. He knows when the wild-rose showers Its blossoms o’er her breast; When the summer-winds, ’mid flowers, Whisper above her rest: And he deems he hears, on his far-off shore, The music of the cataract’s roar From that Island of the Blest! She passed from earth away?— The young, the beautiful, In the long dreamy day When golden shadows fell O’er wave and vine, and moons had sped, Yet there, while that brief season fled, He’d kept Love’s vigil well. He comes, that warrior-chief, Once more, in the pale moon’s wane, When the dews weep o’er each leaf, To that haunted spot again?— But morn with its glorious beauty woke Him not—the warrior’s heart had broke.
INDIAN LEGEND OF THE STAR AND LILY. ——— BY KAH-GE-GA-GAH-BOWH. ——— In the wigwam of the Indian during the evenings of spring, that season when nature, loosed from the bondage of winter, awakes to new life, and begins to deck itself with beauties, the old sage gathers around him the young men of the tribe, and relates the stories of days long since departed. I have seen these youths sit in breathless silence, listening to the old man’s narrative. Now and then the tear-drops would course down their cheeks, and fall to the ground, witnesses of the interest they felt in the words of their teacher. To induce the sire to narrate a tradition, the Indian boys would contrive some ingenious plan by which to get some tobacco, which, when offered with a request for a story, would be sure of a favorable answer. Frequently it happens that from sunset to its rise these clubs are entertained, and they do not separate till daylight calls them to the chase. One of the most interesting traditionary stories I ever heard related, was told by an elderly Indian, one evening in spring. The winter was just leaving, the snow and ice were fast disappearing, and the streams were swollen with the unusual quantity of water from the mountains. “There was once a time,” said he, “when this world was filled with happy people, when all nations were as one, and the crimson tide of war had not begun to roll. Plenty of game were in the forests and on the plains. None were in want, for a full supply was at hand. Sickness was unknown. The beasts of the field were tame, and came and went at the bidding of man. One unending spring gave no place for winter, for its cold blasts or its chills. Every tree and bush yielded fruit. Flowers carpeted the earth; the air was filled with their fragrance, and redolent with the songs of myriad warblers that flew from branch to branch, fearing none, for there were none to harm them. There were birds then of more beautiful plumage than now. “It was then, when earth was a paradise, and man worthy to be its possessor, that Indians were the lone inhabitants of the American wilderness. They numbered millions, and living as nature designed them to live, enjoyed its many blessings. Instead of amusement in close rooms the sports of the fields were theirs. “At night they met on the wide, green fields. They watched the stars; they loved to gaze at them, for they believed them to be the residences of the good who had been taken home by the Great Spirit. One night they saw one star that shone brighter than all others. Its location was far away in the south, near a mountain peak. For many nights it was seen, till at length it was doubted by many that this star was as far off in the southern skies as it seemed to be. This doubt led to an examination, which proved the star to be only a short distance, and near the tops of some trees. A number of warriors were deputed to go and see what it was. They went and returned, saying that it appeared strange and somewhat like a bird. A council of the wise men was called to inquire into and, if possible, ascertain the meaning of the phenomenon. “They feared that it was an omen of some disaster. Some thought it a precursor of good, others of evil. Some supposed it to be the star spoken of by their forefathers, as a forerunner of a dreadful war. “One moon had nearly gone by, and yet the mystery remained unsolved. “One night a young warrior had a dream, in which a beautiful maiden came and stood at his side, and thus addressed him: “‘Young brave! charmed with the land of thy forefathers, its flowers, its birds, its rivers, its beautiful lakes and its mountains clothed with green, I have left my sister in yonder world to dwell among you. “‘Young brave! ask your wise and your great men where I can live and see the happy race continually; ask them what form I shall assume, in order to be loved and cherished among the people.’ “Thus discoursed the bright stranger. The young man awoke. On stepping out of his lodge, he saw the star yet blazing in its accustomed place. “At early dawn the chief’s crier was sent round the camp to call every warrior to the Council Lodge. When they had met, the young warrior related his dream. They concluded that the star they had seen in the south had fallen in love with mankind and that it was desirous to dwell with them. “The next night five tall, noble-looking adventurous braves were sent to welcome the stranger to earth. “They went and presenting to it a pipe of peace, filled with sweet-scented herbs, were rejoiced to find that it took it from them. As they returned to the village, the star, with expanded wings followed, and hovered over their homes till the dawn of day. “Again it came to the young man in a dream and desired to know where it should live, and what form it should take. Places were named. On the tops of giant trees or in flowers. At length it was told to choose a place itself—and it did so. At first it dwelt in the wild rose of the mountains, but there it was so buried it could not be seen. It went to the prairie, but it feared the hoof of the buffaloe. It next went to the rocky cliff, but it was there so high that the children, whom it loved most, could not see it. “‘I know where I shall live,’ said the bright fugitive, ‘where I can see the gliding canoe of the race I most admire. Children, yes, they shall be my playmates, and I will kiss their brows when they slumber at the side of the cool lakes. The nations shall love me wherever I am.’ “These words having been uttered, she alighted on the waters where she saw herself reflected. “The next morning thousands of white flowers were seen on the surface of all the lakes and the Indians gave them this name; Wah-be-gwon-nee—(White Lily.) “Now,” continued the old man, “this star lived in the southern skies. Its brethren can be seen far off in the cold north, hunting the great bear, while its sisters watch her in the east and west. “Children, when you see the lily on the waters, take it in your hands and hold it to the skies, that it may be happy on earth, as its two sisters (the morning and evening stars) are happy in heaven.” While tears fell fast from the eyes of all, the old man lay him down and was soon silent in sleep. Since then I have often plucked the white lily and garlanded around my head; have dipped it in its watery bed, but never have I seen it without remembering the Legend of the Descending Star.
THE IMPROVISATRICE. ——— BY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD. ——— Go bear the voiceless harp away! Its latest note is spoken, And like the heart that beats within, Its last frail chord is broken. This soul of mine was never made For glad or peaceful life, But cast in rude, imperfect mould, For bitterness and strife. I never was a careless child, For in my early years The founts within were gathering, Of anguish and of tears: And when I looked upon the stars In all their golden sheen, The presage of a broken heart— It always came between. And then the Voice of Song awoke Within my wayward soul, And bade the wearing tide of thought Forever o’er it roll. And dreams of words that should go forth To bless and elevate, Ambition’s charmed and serpent lure, The passion to create; Were mingled in my spirit’s depths, Till with displacing power Came Love with gorgeous diadem, The phantom of an hour! And soon the mockeries of Hope Fled smiling from my breast, And left a dark and fearful curse, The cravings of unrest. And Life became a weary load, And Nature’s face a pall, And each red drop that passed my heart Was turned to seething gall. From day to day the lyre within Waxed passionate and frail; It trembled at the zephyr’s breath, How could it brook the gale? Now Death has o’er my pillow bent, I’ve seen his glancing eye, And watched the silvery gleaming of His pinion passing by. Go bring me back my harp again! I feel a strength for prayer, And o’er the shattered chords within Creeps an unearthly air. Go bring me back my harp again, I may not now restore The sounding strings I loved so well, Or tune it as before; But I would lay my hand upon The trembling chords and riven; I feel mine own are healing fast Beneath the eye of Heaven.
THE EIGHTEENTH SONNET OF PETRARCA. ——— BY FAYETTE ROBINSON. ——— Had I but waited patient in the cell Where great Apollo erst became divine, One bard might call himself a Florentine, Like those who once in other lands did dwell. But here the holy ichor doth not swell, And fate hath willed another lot be mine. ’Tis meet that I relinquish high design And drink the waters of life’s turbid well. Sear are the olive branches now, the stream Near which they grew and looked toward the sky Hath sunken deep beneath the rock again. Fate or my fault hath aye dispelled the dream That made me fix my early hopes so high, Unless God will their height I should attain.
JASPER ST. AUBYN; OR THE COURSE OF PASSION. ——— BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT. ——— (Continued from page 15.)
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