A MORNING CALL IN NEW ENGLAND.
“Have you heard the news about Mr. Merritt?” said a young lady, to an acquaintance, whom she was honoring with a morning call.
“No, I have not; what about him?”
“Why, you know that Mr. Warden ruined him, and his property was sold to a gentleman in ——, and the mechanic and his family moved to the West. This was about three years ago. Well, Mr. Warden’s son was violently in love with Mr. Merritt’s daughter, Emma; a fine looking fellow he was, too; and he felt so terribly about his father’s failure, that he immediately left the village; and where should he go, accidentally, but to the very man who purchased Mr. Merritt’s property, and who employed him as a clerk. He happened to suit his employer exactly—for, as I said before, he is a fine looking fellow—and somehow or other he found out lately that young Warden was so much attached to Mr. Merritt’s Emma; and what does he do but give William a deed in full of all the property, and resigned business in his favor, then sends him off to Illinois, to marry the daughter, and bring back the whole family to their old home. And, sure enough, last night they came, bag and baggage, and have commenced housekeeping already. Young Warden and his wife, are the handsomest couple I ever saw. I hear that they are to give a party to their old friends as soon as they are settled.”
TO MY SISTER E .... A.
———
BY ADALIZA CUTTER.
———
Sweet sister, at this twilight hour,
While sings the bird her evening lay,
And gentle dews refresh each flower
That drooped beneath the noontide ray;
While cool, soft breezes play around,
And gently fan my burning brow,
Falling with sweet and soothing sound
Upon my ear like music now;
While trembling there in yonder sky
That little star looks down on me,
I’ll wipe the tear-drops from my eye,
And trill a simple song for thee.
My heart is full, oh, sister dear,
Of tender thoughts of one whose love
No longer lights our pathway here,
But purer glows in worlds above;
And though a year has almost flown
Since we have laid her down to rest,
To-night her form sat by my own,
Her lips upon my brow were pressed;
Her low, sweet voice was in my ear,
Entranced I listened to each word,
So soft, so silvery, and so clear,
As ne’er from mortal lips was heard!
With glowing eye she talked with me
Of our own happy childhood’s hours,
When hand in hand we sisters three
With chainless footsteps sought the flowers;
Or sat beneath the forest trees,
Upon some green and mossy bed,
While, stirred by the low, murmuring breeze,
The leaves made music overhead;
While on the gentle summer air
The birds poured forth their thrilling song,
Till every green leaf waving there
Seemed the sweet echoes to prolong.
She spoke to me of girlhood’s days,
When we had hopes unmixed with fears,
Ere we had learned the world’s cold ways,
And smiles were ours undimmed by tears;
When life seemed like a long, bright dream,
Our spirits buoyant as the air,
And looking o’er life’s gentle stream,
Thought not that rocks lay hidden there;
While onward, onward lightly sped
Our little barks adown the river,
Trusting the sunbeams overhead
Would keep the waters bright forever.
She talked with me of riper years,
When time less lightly speeded by,
And, seen through nature’s flowing tears,
The rainbow spanned a clouded sky;
Some of our brightest dreams had flown,
And that strange lyre, the human heart,
Awoke a deeper, sadder tone,
That things so lovely should depart;
And while we could not stay the tear,
To think those cloudless days were o’er,
A sad voice whispered in our ear,
They’ll come no more—they’ll come no more!
They’ll come no more, oh, sister mine,
Those sunny hours that we have known,
But shall we murmur, or repine,
So many blessings still our own?
True, clouds have gathered on our way,
Deep shadows round about us lie,
But waiting for a brighter day,
Upward we’ll look with steadfast eye;
And as we linger round the tomb
Of one whom our warm hearts held dear,
Sweet voices will dispel the gloom?—
She is not here—she is not here!
THE LIFE INSURANCE.
———
BY HENRY G. LEE.
———
“You look sober this morning,” said I to my neighbor Lincoln one day. “What’s the matter? Any thing wrong?”
“No; I can’t exactly say that,” he replied, with unusual gravity.
“You look as if you were under a mountain of trouble.”
“Do I?” And he made an attempt to laugh; but it was not entirely successful.
“I’m only a little worried just now; but it will pass off,” he added. “I get into these states sometimes—periodically, I might say.”
“Ah, I understand. Imaginary troubles.”
“Oh no,” he quickly replied. “Not just that. There is something like real flesh and blood about the matter. The fact is, to come out plain, Mrs. Lincoln, in her over-kindness, has presented me with another baby.”
“And you are so unreasonable as to grumble about it! You don’t deserve to have blessings.”
“There is such a thing as being blessed to death, you know,” said Mr. Lincoln, smiling; but the smile was still, as they say, on the wrong side of his mouth. “Five babies were enough, in all conscience, without adding a sixth. It was as much as I could do to get bread for what I had.”
“He who sends the mouths will send the bread. Never fear for that.”
“I know. This general trust in Providence is all well enough. But it takes more mental stamina than I possess to bring it down into particular applications. My faith isn’t overly strong. If I were worth a hundred thousand dollars, the babies might come as fast as they liked. I wouldn’t call a baker’s dozen too many. No. I like babies; bless their hearts! but I like them properly cared for. If I live, I suppose all will be well enough. But life is held by the most uncertain tenure. Upon my daily exertions depend the sustenance of my family. If I were to die my wife and children would be in a sad way.”
“Get your life insured,” said I promptly.
Lincoln shook his head and looked grave.
“Why not?”
“Shouldn’t like to do that.” His face became still more serious.
“Any particular objection?”
“It looks like running in the face of Providence. I should feel as if I were signing my death warrant.”
“That’s a strange notion.”
“It’s just as I feel. I’ve thought about it a number of times. But it seems to me that life is too serious a thing to be placed on a common level with a house or a ship. In putting a money-value upon his earthly existence, it seems to me that the Divine Being would be outraged, and visit the mercenary offender with death as a judgment.”
“You have a strange idea of the Divine Being,” said I, evincing surprise in turn. “In getting your life insured, would you purpose evil to your neighbor?”
“No; but rather good. I would seek, in doing so, not only to keep my wife and children from becoming a burden upon others, but to secure to them those worldly advantages so necessary to the healthy development of mind and body.”
“And do you think a merciful God would visit you, vindictively, for acting with such an unselfish purpose in your mind? How strange must be your notion of Him who is represented to us as being in his very nature love! Now, we know that love seeks to impart a blessing to all—not a curse.”
“But there is such a thing as running in the face of Providence, and this life insurance has always struck me as being something of the kind.”
“What do you mean by running in the face of Providence?”
“Doing something in order to counteract the Divine purpose.”
“Do you know the Divine purpose in regard to yourself?”
“No; of course not.”
“Then, how can you, knowingly, do any thing to counteract that purpose?”
“I can’t, knowingly; but I may do so ignorantly.”
“Then you think that the Lord sometimes punishes men for acts innocently done?”
“Such an idea has been in my mind. Man is responsible for his acts, and should, therefore, be very guarded about what he does. His ignorance will not always excuse him.”
“Suppose your child were to do something wrong, yet you had the clearest evidence in your mind that his intentions were good, and not evil; would you punish him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I would regard his intentions.”
“Because they made the quality of the act so far as he was concerned?”
“Yes.”
“Will you make God less reasonable, considerate, and just than yourself? Does not He also regard the motives which influence his children?”
“Why—yes—I suppose He does. But—we ought to be very sure that our motives are right.”
“I grant you that, with all my heart. We must take care that we are not consenting to the death of the saints, under the mad hallucination that we are doing God’s service. But, with reason and revelation for our guide, we need not be in much fear of going wrong.”
“No; I suppose not. Still, I can’t get away from the idea suggested. I feel as if to insure my life would be trifling with a solemn matter.”
“And that life might fail you in consequence?”
“Such is the impression, I must confess.”
“You must, then, think that the providence in regard to the time of a man’s death is arbitrary and capricious?”
“I don’t understand much about the matter; and my very ignorance makes me fearful,” replied Mr. Lincoln.
“It must be plain to you, on reflection,” said I, “that, in a matter so important as the fixing of a man’s eternal state by death, the divine wisdom and mercy of the Lord must be exercised in a most perfect manner, so to speak. That, in fact, no one is called to pass from a natural into a spiritual state of existence, except at the time when such a change will be best for him. The mere circumstance of making an insurance upon the life, with a view to providing for those left behind, who would, perhaps, suffer great evils but for such a provision, could not precipitate this time; for the act could not foreclose a man’s state and prevent his further regeneration.”
Lincoln admitted that there was some force in this view, but said he could not see the subject clearly, and was afraid to act in the matter.
Six months afterward, on meeting my neighbor, his serious face induced me to ask after the cause of his trouble.
“Worried about my affairs, as usual,” said he. “The fact is, I have but little peace of mind. Every thing is so uncertain. By this time I ought to have had a neat little property laid up, but am not worth a copper. My family has increased so rapidly, that it has taken every thing I could make to feed and clothe them. If I were certain of living, I would not feel troubled; for I can earn a comfortable support. But no man has a lease of his life. It makes me heart-sick to think of the consequences if I were to die. What would become of my wife and children! I have not a cent to leave them.”
“Why don’t you get your life insured? Take out a policy of five thousand dollars, for, say seven years. It will cost you only about ninety dollars a year; and you can easily save that much from your income by a little extra economy. Your mind would then be comparatively easy.”
“Five thousand dollars would be a nice little sum to leave,” said Mr. Lincoln, “and would help a great deal.”
“You could pay the premium easily enough?”
“Oh yes.”
“Then make the insurance by all means.”
“I have thought of it several times since we conversed on the subject; but some how or other have put it off from time to time. I must do so no longer. My doubts as to the propriety of life insurance, which I expressed some time ago, I do not feel as strongly as then. I thought a good deal of what you said, and came to the conclusion that your views were pretty nearly correct.”
“Life is uncertain. We can only call the present our own. Be wise, then, and make this provision for your family.”
“I must do it,” said Lincoln, as he left me.
“Have you effected that insurance yet?” said I to him a few months afterward.
“No, I have not,” he replied, “but I must do it. The fact is, when it comes to the pinch, the amount of premium is something. A man hasn’t always got ninety dollars to spare.”
“True. But didn’t I see a new sofa and a set of mahogany chairs going into your house a week or two ago?”
“Yes.”
“And they cost, no doubt, a hundred dollars.”
“Just that.”
“Would it not have been wiser—”
“I know what you would say,” interrupted Lincoln. “Yes, it would have been wiser. The possession of a policy for five thousand dollars would give me a far greater pleasure than I have yet derived from looking at or sitting upon my new chairs and sofa. The old ones were comfortable enough.”
“Don’t put it off any longer. Better take out a policy for two thousand five hundred now, if the amount of premium is an object, and another policy for a like sum in two or three months.”
“I’ll do that,” said he, speaking earnestly.
We parted. A month or two afterward, I alluded to the matter again. The insurance had not been made, and Lincoln seemed a little annoyed at my reference to the subject. After that I avoided any further remark touching the advantages of life insurance when in company with Lincoln. But I never met his wife, a fragile looking creature, that I did not feel an emotion of pain at the thought of her being left destitute, with six children clinging to her for support.
Nearly a year elapsed from the time of my last reference to the subject of life insurance, when news came to the city that, while bathing on the sea-shore, Lincoln had been drowned. The sad event was made sadder in my mind, as my thoughts turned, involuntarily, to his wife and children, left without a protector and provider. What were they to do? Lincoln had been engaged in the business of a real estate broker. At his death, there was no estate to settle up—no store to sell out—few if any debts to collect. The office would be closed, and the income cease.
“Poor woman! what is she to do?” said I to myself a dozen times in the first hour that elapsed after I had heard the afflictive news. “Without fifty dollars in the world, probably, besides furniture and clothing, how is she to maintain, by her own unaided exertions, a family of six children?”
So much was I afflicted by the occurrence, that I could not sleep for some hours after retiring to bed in the evening.
On the next morning the newspapers contained a notice of the accident, with this announcement:
“We are happy to state, that a few days before leaving for the sea-shore, Mr. Lincoln had his life insured in the Girard Life Insurance and Trust Company, for five thousand dollars.”
I was so much affected in reading this, that my hands trembled, and the paper dropped from them to the floor.
Some years have elapsed since the occurrence of this sad event. Almost daily I pass a small store in a well frequented street, behind the counter of which is sometimes seen the widow of Mr. Lincoln, or a daughter who has attained the age of fourteen years. The face of the former has a sober, quiet look, but bears no evidence of distressing care. Under the advice and assistance of friends, four thousand dollars of the money received at the death of her husband, were safely invested in six per cent. securities, and with the balance, a small store was stocked with goods. The interest on four thousand dollars paid her rent, and the profits on her little business enabled her to meet the real wants of her family.
How different would all have been but for this life insurance.
BUNKER-HILL AT MIDNIGHT.
———
BY E. CURTIS HINE, U. S. N.
———
I stand upon the sacred hill
Where Liberty hath made her home.
’Tis midnight, all is hushed and still
Where’er my footsteps roam;
While towering through the air of night
Yon stately pile doth rear its head,
A granite flower, of giant height,
Sprung from the dust of Patriots dead!
Methinks I hear the rustling sound
Of myriad angels’ hovering wings,
Who guard this famed, enchanted ground,
Around which Romance clings!
Like those that o’er gray Marathon
Are hovering in the night’s still noon,
Spirits descend and stand upon
This hill when clouds obscure the moon!
Beneath me sleeps the city dim,
Whose dusky spires tower on high,
And white-winged vessels slowly skim
Yon river winding by.
The wandering night-winds round me moan,
And for that day of glory sigh,
When Freedom’s star in splendor shone
Through the torn clouds in War’s dark sky!
Where now the men that nobly dealt
A nation’s wrath upon the foe,
And for their injured country felt
Their cheeks indignant glow?
Alas! they all have passed away,
Like stars that leave the sky at morn,
When in the east the king of day
On couch of gilded clouds is born!
And silence reigns where’er I tread,
Like that which greets the passer-by
In that lone city of the dead
’Neath Egypt’s brazen sky!
Brave men are sleeping everywhere,
Their ashes hallow every strand,
And this lone hill-top has its share,
On which in musing mood I stand!
LINES.
———
BY SARAH HELEN WHITMAN.
———
“The undying voice of that dead time,
With its interminable chime,
Rings on my spirit like a knell.”
Dost thou remember that September day
When by the Seekonk’s lonely wave we stood,
And marked the languor of repose that lay,
Softer than sleep, on valley, wave and wood?
A trance of solemn rapture seemed to lull
The charmÉd earth and circumambient air,
And the low murmur of the leaves seemed full
Of a resigned and passionless despair.
Though the warm breath of summer lingered still
In the lone paths where late her footsteps passed,
The pallid star-flowers on the purple hill
Sighed dreamily “we are the last! the last!”
I stood beside thee, and a dream of heaven
Around me like a golden halo fell!
Then the bright veil of phantasy was riven,
And my lips murmured “fare thee well!—farewell!”
I dared not listen to thy words, nor turn
To meet the pleading language of thine eyes,
I only felt their power, and in the urn
Of memory treasured their sweet rhapsodies.
We parted then forever—and the hours
Of that bright day were gathered to the past?—
But through long wintry nights I heard the flowers
Sigh dreamily, we are the last!—the last!
[SEE ENGRAVING.]
This is the name of one of the mouths of the Mississippi River. At the distance of 105 miles below New Orleans by the course of the river, and 90 miles in a direct line, this majestic stream enters the Gulf of Mexico by several mouths, the principal of which are the Belize, or North East Pass, in latitude 29° 7' and longitude 80° 10' West, and the South West Pass, in latitude 29° 8' North and longitude 89° 25' West. The depth of water on the bar at each of these passes is 12 to 16 feet, but much greater without and a little within the bar. Most vessels enter and leave by the Belize, and hence the frequency with which we hear this remarkable place referred to.
The tall erections in the engraved view are look-outs constructed for observing the approach of vessels, and hoisting signals. The country about the Balize is one continued swamp, destitute of trees, and covered with a species of coarse reeds, from four to five feet high. Nothing can be more dreary than a prospect from a ship’s mast while passing this immense waste.
WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.
———
BY PROFESSOR FROST.
———
