LETTERS LEFT AT THE PASTRY-COOK'S |
BEING THE CLANDESTINE CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN KITTY CLOVER AT SCHOOL, AND HER "DEAR, DEAR FRIEND" IN TOWN. EDITED BY HORACE MATHEW. [We intend giving a selection from these "spicy" Letters, chiefly for the purpose of showing what the boarding-school system for girls is in England, and thus contrasting the course of female education in that country with our own modes of instruction. The Letters are doubtless somewhat exaggerated; but the caricature shows what the reality must be. Some of the regulations and modes of teaching are worthy of note. We should like to see the "drill and march" teaching introduced into our young ladies' schools. This part of the English Girls' School training is never neglected. They are taught to walk as sedulously as to dance.] THE FIRST LETTER LEFT. (Dated February 10th.) SHOWING HOW KITTY WAS TAKEN TO SCHOOL BY HER "WICKED MAMMA." Oh! my darling Eleanor, it is all over!—and yet I live; but I have strong hopes of dying before to-morrow morning. I feel that I can never exist within these hateful walls, to be a wretched slave to Mrs. Rodwell's "maternal solicitude and intellectual culture." What do I want with intellectual culture indeed? But I'm determined I won't learn a bit—not a tinny-tiny bit! I must tell you, dearest, that, before leaving home, I cried continually for at least three weeks; but my tears made not the slightest impression on mamma's hard heart, which, I am sure, must be stone. More than this, I starved myself during the last three days—did not take one luncheon—even refused pudding; and at Mrs. St. Vitus's ball would not dance, nor touch a thing at supper. But all in vain! No one seemed to care a pin about it; and ma only appeared to take pleasure in my sufferings. The boys teased, and made cruel jokes upon my misery; and that detestable Martha helped to get me ready as cheerfully as if I—no, she—was going to be married. The last day I went into hysterics; and looked so ill—with my red eyes and pale cheeks—that ma, to my great joy, got frightened, and sent for Dr. Leech. But that cross old monster only dangled his bunch of big seals, and said that I should be better at Turnham-green—a little change of air would do me good! Much he knows about medicine! for, at the very moment he was talking, I felt as if I must have fainted. So in a cold drizzling rain—will you believe it, Nelly?—I was dragged into the carriage (for pa had walked down to the office on foot, carrying his own blue bag, purposely that ma might have the carriage), and propped up on each side with bags of oranges, cakes, and goodies, to cheat me into the stupid notion, I really imagine, that I was going to have a treat, in the same way that nurse always gives Julius his powders, with lots of sugar on the top! Oh! my sweetest Eleanor, words cannot express the wretchedness of your poor friend during that long ride! And yet Oates never did drive so quickly; he seemed to be doing it on purpose—whipping the poor horse through Hyde-Park as furiously as if we were trying to catch a mail-train, instead of going at that delicious crawling pace which we have always been accustomed to by the side of the Serpentine. Opposite Lord Holland's park the horse fell. Oh, how my heart beat, to be sure! I thought he was killed at least, and that we should be obliged to return home; but no such thing. He picked himself up as quietly as you would a pin, and the carriage went on even faster than before. But after all, Eleanor, what pained me most was mamma's and Martha's cold-hearted conversation whilst I was in a corner suffering so much! They chatted as cheerfully upon worldly nonsense as if we were going to a pantomime. I shall never forget their cutting cruelty at such a moment as that; and to make matters worse, what with crying and the rain, I felt as wet through as if I had been travelling along the submarine telegraph, besides my tears spoiling my pretty puce-colored bonnet strings, which were quite new that day. At last we stopped before a large, cold-looking house, with walls pulled tight round it, like the curtains of the four-poster when pa's ill in bed. It was all windows, with bars here and there, and the plaster looked damp, and altogether it was much more like a convent than a college; for I must tell you our school isn't called a "school" (for it seems there are no schools for young ladies now-a-days), nor a "seminary," nor an "academy," but it's a "college." I thought I should have fainted away, only I had the cakes and oranges in my arms, and was afraid of dropping them down the area, when Mrs. Rodwell took me upon her "maternal" knee, and began stroking me down and calling me her "dear young friend," with whom she said "she should soon be on excellent terms," (only I am sure we never shall, excepting the "excellent terms" pa pays her), and she went on playing with me, Nelly, just as I have seen the great boa-constrictor, at the Zoological Gardens, cuddle and play with the poor dear little rabbit, before he devours it. And now, dearest, mind you never mention what I am going to tell you; but all the sentiment and fine talking and writing about a mother's love is nonsense! utter nonsense! all a delightful sham!—for all the world, Nelly, like those delicious sweet mÉringues at the pastry-cook's, which look like a feast, and only melt into a mouthful! I am sure of it, Nelly, dear, or else how could they bear to make us so miserable? looking quite happy whilst our poor hearts are breaking? sending us from our natural homes, where we are so comfortable, to such miserable places as this "Princesses' College?" and especially, too, when governesses now-a-days are so plentiful, and far cheaper, I am told, than maids of all work! Why, it was only last Friday morning I showed ma the most beautiful advertisement there was in the "Morning Post," all about a governess offering to "teach English, French, German, Italian, Latin, the use of globes, dancing, and crochet-work too, and drawing, painting, music, singing, together with the art of making wax-flowers actually, and all for 21l. a year!" But ma only patted me, and said she "should be ashamed to encourage such a terrible state of things," or some such stupid stuff that put me in a passion to listen to. I am sure I shall never believe ma loves me again, after throwing me from her dear fat arms into the long thin claws of that awful Mrs. Rodwell! They opened and shut, and closed round me, Nell, exactly like a lobster's! Before I could escape, ma and Martha were gone, and I was left alone—all alone—in this large dungeon of a place, with every door fast. Well, Nelly, you have been to school—at least I suppose you have—so you can imagine how I was allowed to remain in the schoolmistress's—no, our schoolmistress is called a "Lady Principal"—in the Lady Principal's boudoir to compose myself; how I was treated to weak tea and thin bread and butter with Mrs. R., and asked all the time all manner of questions that made my cheeks burn with rage, about home, and about mamma and papa, until eight o'clock came, and with it the permission to retire, as "bed would do my head good." I was too glad to get released, if it was merely to indulge my grief, and cry myself to sleep under the bedclothes! But, law! if it was so uncomfortable in the boudoir (and such a boudoir, Nell!—a dark closet with a handful of cinders for fire, and full of gimcracks, little pincushions, lavender baskets, painted card-racks, and fire-screens, until it seemed furnished from a fancy fair)—but if that was uncomfortable, I say, it was positively wretched in the bedroom, with its six iron cramp-beds, three washing-basins, and one looking-glass! Yes, Nelly, only one looking-glass amongst six young ladies! I never heard of such a thing. And then the place was so, so very cold, that I am sure I shall have a red nose and chilblains for the remainder of my life; but I hope, my dear, fond Nelly, you will love me all the same! Well, I cried myself to sleep, and it was a great comfort, I can assure you; and it seemed still in the middle of the night, when a loud ringing in my ears frightened me out of my sleep, and made me nearly fall out of bed. And, after that came a sharp, barking voice, calling out—"Now, young ladies! are you going to breakfast in bed?" and causing a general stretching, scuffling, and jumping up. The cold glimmering dawn lighted only portions of the room, but I could see five other girls creeping about, half asleep, quarreling for basins, engaging turns at the one looking-glass, joking, grumbling, yawning, and laughing; whilst I, poor I, sat, hope-forlorn, shivering, half with cold, and half with fear, on the edge of the bed. There, a tall young lady, in a flannel dressing-gown, discovered me, and exclaimed: "Why, here's the New Girl! I say, my young lady, you had better make haste; the second bell will soon ring, and Miss Snapp will give you something to cry for if you're not ready." Then they all came and stared at me (the rude things); and as I could not help crying, one of them called out, "Oh! Oh! how affecting! Oh! Oh! Oh! OH!" ending at last in a loud bellow, in which I joined in painful earnest; and then they left me, and went on whispering, washing, combing, and lacing each other, until "Ding, ding, ding," went the second bell, and at the first sound they all scampered away, some with their dresses still unfastened, calling after others to come and hook them for them. I never should have got finished myself, unless a mild, quiet-looking woman had ventured to my assistance, and led me down stairs into the school-room, where I nearly dropped upon feeling the stare of some fifty girls fall upon me all in a lump, just like the water from a shower-bath after you have pulled the string. Oh, darling Nelly! what would I have given for one familiar face that I knew, or to have had your loving self by my side, so that I might have thrown my arms around your dear neck, and have a good cry; for I am sure that a good cry does one, frequently, much more good than a good laugh! The buzzing, which had suddenly ceased on my appearance, began again with double vehemence, making nearly as much noise as the water, when it's running into the cistern at home. Amidst the hurried whispers, I could detect, "What a milksop!" "Mammy's darling!" "She'll soon be broken in!" &c.; when the same dog-like voice was heard to bark again, calling out above the uproar, "To your seats, young ladies! Silence! Five forfeits for the first who speaks!" In the lull which followed, I was seated by the side of my quiet conductress, and permitted to write this letter to my dear, darling Eleanor, just to fill up my time before breakfast, after which I am to be examined and classed according to what I know. Oh, Nelly, I do so dread this day, and am so extremely wretched, thinking, all the time, what they are doing at home, and how Martha is rejoicing that she has got her sister away from home. But I must leave off, dearest; and I will promise you several more letters (that is, of course, if I survive this day), in which I will tell you of everything that occurs in this filthy school—-I mean college. That will be the only ray of pleasure, Nelly, which will shoot in this dark dungeon through the captive heart of your devoted, but wretchedly unhappy Kitty Clover. P. S.—Excuse haste and my dreadful scrawl. P. S.—You will see I have forwarded this to the pastry-cook's in Tottenham-court-road. Do not eat too many pink tarts, dear, when you call for it. P. S.—We hear a great deal, Nelly, about the trials and troubles of the world, and of all we have to go through, and about school being the happiest time of our lives; but they seem to do all they can to make it miserable, and I don't believe any hardship on this world is worse than going to school, and having to face fifty girls, all making fun of the New Pupil. CELESTIAL PHENOMENA.—JANUARY. BY D. W. BELISLE. There is no study that engages so little general attention as that of the planetary world. Yet it is the oldest of all sciences, dating from the hour when, in obedience to the command of Jehovah, "Let there be light," lo! the "God of day" arose with all its brilliancy in the East, while the queen of night, with her myriads of starry attendants, sank softly below the horizon in the West, and all, in their joy at the new creation, sang together in their spheres. The Chaldeans were the first to divide the starry hosts into constellations, and from them it was introduced into Egypt by Abraham, who gave lectures on astronomy to the Egyptians. From Egypt the Greeks received their knowledge of the hitherto to them unknown science. When Babylon fell into the hands of Alexander, Calisthenes found astronomical observations among the records, dating 1903 years before that period, which carries us back to the time of the dispersion of mankind by the confusion of tongues. Fifteen hundred years after this, the Babylonians sent to Hezekiah to inquire about the shadows going back on the dial of Ahaz. From that period up to the present time it is not difficult to trace the progress this science has made, although sometimes obscured by fanaticism and superstition, which imprisoned the dauntless Galileo for asserting a belief in the unerring laws that bind the whole system of worlds in their spheres. My object in these articles is not to show why a science that at once elevates and refines the soul, by bringing it to dwell upon the works of Him whence every holy, noble impulse springs that stirs the heart, is so much neglected, except by our professors and astronomers, but to call attention to, and take a cursory view of the most interesting constellations, commencing with Ursa Minor, or the Little Bear. This constellation crosses the meridian in November, and does not properly belong to this month, and is only adverted to here on account of the importance attached to its only star of any magnitude, the Alruccaba of the Jews, the Cynosura of the Romans, and our North Star. By this the mariner ploughs his track fearlessly from continent to continent through the trackless ocean, launches into unknown seas, and, with his eye on the star that never fails him, steers his bark among the icebergs which in the North never yield to the sun, among the frowning peaks of which lurk the messengers of destruction. By this the surveyor determines the boundaries of kingdoms, and by this the Arab and Bedouin traverse their seas of burning sand. "The Lesser Bear Leads from the pole the lucid band: the stars Which from this constellation faintly shine, Twice twelve in number, only one beams forth Conspicuous in high splendor, named by Greece The Cynosure; by us the Polar Star." The seven principal stars in this constellation form a reversed dipper, Cynosura being the first of the three that constitute the handle. Of the four that constitute the bowl, one of them is so small as to obscure the uniformity; still, it may be readily traced in a clear night with the naked eye. The mythological history of this constellation is that Juno, the imperious queen of heaven, in a rage transformed Arcas, the son of the Nymph Calisto, into a bear; and, afterwards repenting, by the favor of Jupiter, translated him to the skies, that he might not be destroyed by the huntsman. "Placed at the helm he sat, and marked the skies, Nor closed in sleep his ever watchful eyes." The Chinese claim that the Emperor Hong-ti, a grandson of Noah, first discovered and applied to navigation the Polar Star. It is certain it was used for this purpose at a very early day. Lacan, a Latin poet, who wrote about the time of the birth of our Saviour, thus adverts to the practice of steering vessels by this star:— "Unstable Tyre, now knit to firmer ground, With Sidon for her purple shells renowned, Safe in the Cynosure, their glittering guide, With well-directed navies stem the tide." This was over eighteen centuries ago, and still Cynosura is the "glittering guide" of the mariner, and will be for ages yet to come. It guided nations who lived so long ago that oblivion has swept their name and age from existence, as it does us at the present time, and will guide other nations so far down the stream of time that the word American will be without a meaning, if heard. Sixty degrees south-west of the Polar Star may be seen Taurus, the first constellation on the meridian the present month. For the space of two thousand years, Taurus was the prince, the leader of the celestial hosts. Anterior to the time of Abraham, or more than four thousand years ago, the vernal equinox took place, and the year opened when the sun was in Taurus. Aries, or the Ram, succeeded next, and now the Fishes lead the brilliant throng, and the once leader is the second sign and third constellation in the zodiac. There are one hundred and forty-one visible stars comprised in this constellation, among which are two beautiful clusters, known as the Pleiades and Hyades. Six only of the Pleiades are visible to the naked eye; yet Dr. Hook, with a twelve feet telescope, saw seventy-eight stars, and Rheita, with one of greater power, counted two hundred in this small cluster, while still beyond is seen a faint hazy light, which probably would resolve into stars could an instrument be made powerful enough to overcome the distance that intervenes. All that has been, or ever can be revealed by the aid of the most powerful telescope, is as nothing in comparison to what Beyond its reach still rolls, In orbits like our own— Worlds, on whose surface nature folds Her dewy wings. There is no finite mind which can trace the depth and breadth of immensity— There is no eye but His alone Can thread this deep abyss, can tell how many worlds have gone Before the dawn of this; Or number all the worlds that yet Our Maker in the void may set. The Pleiades are so called from the Greek word pleein, to sail, and were in ancient times used by the mariners of that nation to guide them in their course. Virgil, who flourished twelve hundred years before the discovery of the magnetic needle, thus alludes to it— "Then first on seas the shallow alder swam; Then sailors quartered heaven, and found a name For every fixed and every wandering star— The Pleiades, Hyades, and the Northern Car." This cluster of stars is more familiarly known as the Seven Stars, and are sometimes also called "The Virgins of Spring," because the sun enters it in the "season of flowers," or about the 18th of May. He who placed them in the firmament alludes to it when he demands "Canst thou bind the sweet influences of the Pleiades?"—i. e. can you make the flowers bloom, or prevent them unfolding their buds in their season? The Pleiades are situated in the shoulder of the Bull, and come to the meridian ten minutes before nine o'clock on the evening of the first of this month. The Hyades are situated 11° S. E. of the Pleiades, in the face of the Bull, and are so arranged as to form the letter V. The most brilliant star in the constellation is on the left, in the top of the letter, and called Aldebaran, from which the moon's distance is computed. This star comes to the meridian at nine o'clock on the tenth of this month. Fifteen and a half degrees E. N. E. of Aldebaran is a bright star, which marks the tip of the southern horn, while eight degrees north a still brighter star indicates the tip of the northern horn. This star also marks the foot of the Wagoner, and is called Auriga, and, with Zeta in the southern horn and Aldebaran, forms a triangle. According to Grecian mythology, Europa, a princess of Phoenicia, and daughter of Agenor, with her female attendants, was gathering flowers in the meadows. The princess was so beautiful that Jupiter became enamored of her, and, assuming the shape of a milk white bull, mingled with the herds of Agenor; and, under this guise, attracted the attention of the princess, who caressed the beautiful animal, and finally ventured to sit upon his back. Jupiter took advantage of her situation, and retired with her precipitately to the sea, crossed it, and arrived safely with her in Crete. Europe is said to have derived its name from her. The Egyptians and Persians worship a deity under this figure, and Belzoni found an embalmed bull among the ruins of Thebes.
Poetry.
TO THE NEW YEAR. Thou, like the Phoenix born, On this auspicious morn, Dost take thy station in the circling years; While stars sing o'er thy birth, And waking sons of earth Thy advent greet with hopeful smiles and tears. We hail thee from afar, Upon thy mystic car Riding adown the whirlwind and the storm; Thou com'st in regal state, With power and strength elate, And robed in mystery is thy youthful form. The Old Year sleepeth sound, With bay and ivy crowned, The slain and slayer sleep in sweet accord; Earth's treasured jewels bright He gathered in his flight, And garnered for the glory of his Lord. How many beaming eyes That joy to see thee rise, Will lose their brightness and have passed away! How many a beating heart, Whose throbbings life impart, Will throb its last before thy closing day! Yet earth, so fair and bright, Was made to glad the sight, Else why Spring's blossoms that successive rise; With all the rich perfume Of Summer's leafy bloom; The Autumn's gorgeous tints and glowing skies; With Winter robed in white; Each bringing new delight— The season's changing scenes that never pall; While yon o'erbending blue, With bright eyes beaming through, The Architect Divine stretched over all? Then let us not complain; But, while we here remain, Extract the honey and avoid the sting. Why not, when thus we may Make life a summer's day, And let time steal away with noiseless wing? Yea, let us do our best, And leave to Heaven the rest, Nor die a thousand deaths in fearing one; If we but cheerful be, Sorrow and care will flee, And, rose-like, Time will fragrance leave when gone. Then hail to thee, New Year, In thine allotted sphere! With song and welcome we our voices raise; And may thy deeds so shine That, through all coming time, Millions shall, rising, join to hymn thy praise And thou, our own loved land, Maintain thy glorious stand, A beacon light to penetrate earth's gloom! And, when the year is spent, May health and sweet content In every home and heart serenely bloom!
ON THE PORCH OF THE CATARACT HOUSE. BY HELEN HAMILTON. 'Tis night upon the waters; but the hour That bringeth silence unto all beside, With the deep majesty of its repose, Calms not the tumult of thy rushing tide, Thou monarch cataract! thy mighty voice Goes up to God from out the silent night, And the wild waters, hurrying to thy grasp, Rush madly onward 'neath the moon's pale light. He who would visit Europe's ruined fanes Must look upon them 'neath the stars of night; The crowded city's haunts of noise and wealth Are fittest to behold in noon's broad light; The calm untroubled river best is seen 'Neath the soft glories of the day's decline; And ocean's grandeur with the storm-wind dwells: All seasons, all, Niagara, are thine. Spring drops her crown of blossoms at thy feet; And summer veils thy trees in deepest green; And gorgeous autumn flings his richest robe Of gold and crimson o'er the forest scene; And winter comes in panoply of ice, And loads with diamonds rock, and bush, and tree— But all these seasons, bringing change to all, Bring never change, Niagara, to thee! Above thy mist-veiled brow the lightnings play, Thy thunder answers back the heaven's roar, But the wild storm adds no sublimity Unto thy grandeur, changeless evermore. The angry winds of winter can but raise The misty veil that shrouds thine awful brow; Vain is the Ice-king's might to chain thy waves, Down rushing to the em'rald depths below. Yet even to thee, Oh mighty cataract! The time will come when thou shalt be no more; When the deep anthem of thy thunder voice Shall silent be beside the rocky shore; When the bright rainbow, bending from the skies, Shall seek in vain the brow she used to crown, And thine own waves will sing thy requiem, From lake to lake in fury rushing down.
A SKETCH. BY "LEONORA." It was evening, and midwinter; Piped the wind on pinions fleet, While with sharp, incessant rattle, As of insect hordes at battle, 'Gainst the windows drove the sleet. Cosily, in ample kitchen Seated, were a busy group Round a hearthstone swept most trimly, While the flames rolled up the chimney, Chimney broad and deep. On the rug the sleepy house-dog Lay, with muzzle on his paws; In the corner purred grimalkin, Who full oft had made the welkin Ring with hideous noise. Poring o'er the latest paper, Quite absorbed, the father sat; While a merry little urchin, With some twigs and splinters birchen, Built a tower upon his foot. On a stand of gayest fabric Hexagons and squares were piled, And a bright-haired little maiden, Scarce less fair than Eve in Aidenn, At her patchwork toiled. With her earnest eyes and loving Bent upon the little band, Sat a matron briskly knitting, Shaping hose most trimly fitting, With a patient hand. Curled the smoke wreaths up the chimney, While below the simmering pile, Like a summer insect's droning, Or the night winds stifled moaning, Sounded all the while. Mingling with the antique pattern Of the paper on the walls, Danced the curious shadows lightly, While the flames burned dim or brightly, Mounting up in wavy coils. Sounded out the measured ticking Of the clock against the wall; Sat the boy, with blue eyes dancing, At his father slyly glancing; What would be his wonder fancying When his tower should fall! Thus went by the fleeting moments At the farmer's happy home; Kindly words of love were spoken, Beaming glances gave sweet token Of affections deep and warm. Still without the storm kept raging, Wailingly the blast swept by, 'Gainst the panes the sleet still driving, Seemed for entrance vainly striving, Emblem of the tempter's arrows, Warded with their wedded sorrows, From that lowly family.
"MY EXPERIENCE IN BABIES, SIR!" Disrespectfully Dedicated to the Renowned Bachelor who wrote an Essay of several pages on an Hour's Experience with a Baby.
BY MARY NEAL. 'Twas night, and all day long I'd strove To soothe my little suffering dove. Oh, whose beside a mother's love Could rightly nurse a baby? I laid me down to steal some rest, Its head was pillowed on my breast; In dreams, my husband's love still blessed Me and my darling baby. But soon its piteous moanings broke My rest, and from my dreams I woke To feel its pulse's feverish stroke, My little suffering baby! "And oh, how hot its little head! Rise quick and get a light, dear Fred! Something unusual, I'm afraid, Is ailing our poor baby." Slowly he rose, with sullen grace, The light gleamed on his cloudy face— "I never knew 'twas a (man's!) place Before, to tend a baby!" My pulses throbbed; a terror crept Throughout my heart; and, while I wept, This noble man lay down and slept, And left me with my baby. Oh, you, light-hearted, beauteous maid, Whose greatest care's to curl and braid, Far from life's lessons have you strayed. If you ne'er think of babies! Then learn from me, a matron staid, For this alone was woman made, After her sovereign lord's obeyed, To nurse and tend the babies. And Man, thou noblest work of God! Thou, who canst never see the load Thy wife sustains through life's rough road, With thee and with her babies, Go kneel upon thy mother's grave And think—that every life she gave Made her Death's victim or Life's slave; Then love your wife—and babies! And you, you musty bachelor, Who could not watch a little flower, And keep it tearless one short hour— Poor victimized "wee" baby!— Go hide your gray, diminished head Within your mother's feather bed, And ne'er through life may it be said You have a wife or baby!
BE OF GOOD CHEER: IT IS I. BY R. T. CONRAD. "But when they saw him walking upon the sea, they supposed it had been a spirit, and cried out. For they all saw him and were troubled. And immediately he talked with them, and saith unto them, Be of good cheer: it is I; be not afraid."—Mark vi. 49, 50.
BY PAUL H. HAYNE. The laughing Hours before her feet Are strewing vernal roses, And the voices in her soul are sweet As music's mellowed closes; All Hopes and Passions, heavenly-born, In her have met together; And Joy hath spread around her morn A mist of golden weather. As o'er her cheek of delicate dyes The blooms of childhood hover, So do the tranced and sinless eyes All childhood's heart discover; Full of a dreamy happiness, With rainbow fancies laden, Whose arch of promise leans to bless Her spirit's beauteous Aidenn. She is a being born to raise Those undefiled emotions That link us with our sunniest days, And most sincere devotions: In her we see, renewed and bright, That phase of earthly story Which glimmers in the morning light Of God's exceeding glory. Why, in a life of mortal cares, Appear these heavenly faces? Why, on the verge of darkened years, These amaranthine graces? 'Tis but to cheer the soul that faints With pure and blest evangels, To prove if heaven is rich with saints, That earth may have her angels. Enough! 'tis not for me to pray That on her life's sweet river, The calmness of a virgin day May rest, and rest forever; I know a guardian genius stands Beside those waters lowly, And labors with immortal hands To keep them pure and holy.
AN INCIDENT. BY J. M. C. Passing a bower, I looked within, And lo! a little girl was there, With rosy cheeks and dimpled chin, Soft hazel eyes and golden hair. The darling child was on her knees, Her tiny hands were clasped in prayer, Her ringlets fluttered in the breeze And glistened round her forehead fair. She seemed a being pure and bright, Just come to earth from "realms of light;" I treasured every word she said, And this the orison she made: "They tell me life is fraught with care, That joy will fade when youth is flown, And ills arise so hard to bear I cannot tread life's maze alone. Then, Heavenly Father, be my guide! By thee be all my wants supplied! To thee I turn, in thee confide! "Watch o'er this little wayward heart, Whose pulses beat so blithely now; Ah, keep it pure and free from art, And teach it to thy will to bow! Father, Saviour, be its guide When pleasures tempt or woes betide! Beneath thy wing let me abide. "As a young bird, untaught to fly, Essays in vain aloft to soar Without its parents' aid, so I Thy help require, thy help implore, To lead me in the heavenward way! Oh, then, be thou my guide, my stay! From the right path ne'er let me stray!"
TO CAROLINE IN HEAVEN. BY ANNIE B. CLARE. Thy feet have passed through the vale of the shadow, Young, gifted, and beautiful, loving and loved; With spirit immortal thou walkest the meadows, By rivers that gladden the city of God! Thou castest thy crown at the feet of the Saviour; A fair smiling cherub is holding thy hand; Together thou joinest the song of the ransomed, Whose robes are washed white in the blood of the Lamb! Dost see in that cherub thy guardian angel Who was with thee below, and preceded thee there, Who, lovely on earth, is more lovely in Heaven, Who called thee impatient his glory to share? Oh! fair gleams the marble in yonder sweet forest Which the hand of affection hath placed o'er thy grave; And constant the tribute of fresh blooming flowers By friendship entwined, and over thee laid. Oh! sweet is the song that the wild bird is singing, And fair are the trees that wave over thy head, And soft are the shadows that sunset is flinging O'er thee and thy babe in thy low quiet bed. Ever fresh in our hearts and remembrance are wrought The scenes of thy life in beautiful story; From the day that thou camest a joyous young bride, Till called by thy Saviour, partaker of glory. That life seems a dream we delight to recall, So pure and so gentle thy sweet virtues shone; The graces of earth and graces of heaven, Like a mantle of beauty over thee thrown. Thy fairy-like form is ever before us; Thy cheek where the rose and the lily combined; Thine eye of the dew-begemmed violet's color, Beaming with purity, goodness, and mind! How gloomy seemed earth of thy presence bereft! How dark was the home by thy sunshine made gay! How crushed was the heart of the mourner thou'st left, The light of his life thus taken away! But bright gleams the path that thy dear feet have trod, And light shone around thee through the dark river, And joy was 'mongst angels in presence of God, As they welcomed thee home forever and ever.
MY GRANDMOTHER'S STAND. BY H. B. WILDMAN. It may be, indeed, I am childless and vain, But I love the old relic of antiquate form; Like the surf-beaten vessel that furrows the main, It hath struggled and weathered through many a storm! Full well I remember it, when but a boy, The spot where 'twas placed by that matronly hand; And now I'm grown old, like a child with its toy, I love the old relic—my Grandmother's stand. 'Tis a "long time ago," though briefly it seems, Since I heard her dear lessons of virtue and truth; Oh, oh! that the Past would return with its dreams, And let me live over one day of my youth! Then I should sit down in that old-fashioned room, So simple, so artless, so rustically planned; Then I should bring roses, and drink their perfume, As they blushed in that vase on my Grandmother's stand. Ah, well I remember the treasures it bore— The book that our dear village parson laid there; In fancy, I see the good man at the door, In fancy, behold him, still bending in prayer. That "old-fashioned Bible," I ne'er can forget, That blessed old Book, with its holy command; That "old-fashioned Bible," I see it there yet— That dear blessed Book, on my Grandmother's stand. Oh, the world it may boast of its beauty and art, And Grandeur explore the dark depths of the tide; But the Past, with its treasures, can gladden the heart Far more than the perishing gildings of pride! Then, away with your grandeur and arts that impose, I'll praise the old relic with life's wasting sand; I'll guard the dear treasure till life's latest close, And bless when I'm dying my Grandmother's stand.
TO LAURA.—THE FRIEND. BY BEATA. Your letter, dearest Laura, a welcome found indeed; Never fear to write whate'er you think, 'tis that I wish to read; I agree with you, sweet cousin, that openness and truth Can alone preserve to latest years the friendship of our youth. Yes—let me bear it as I may, I would not hide from you I have been sadly slighted by the fickle Harry Drew! Since the ball, I saw him seldom before we left the town, And though six months have here elapsed, he has not once been down. But much we've seen of Argentrie, and I trust that I have gained A friend, with whom I can forget the faithless one disdained; And as he does not think me yet an "angel of the sky," To win his honest word of praise I own I sometimes try. His knowledge is so very great, his statements are so clear; Of life, its hopes and trials, with deepfelt awe I hear; New views are spread before me, and I feel not all in vain— Oh! never, never can I be a thoughtless child again. My duties now present themselves, I scarce can tell you how; I am sure I was unconscious they were left undone till now; That though papa is fond of music, 'twas not for him I played, Nor for his pleasure that I read, or the least exertion made. But all that is changed at last, and when at close of day He returns fatigued from business, I am never far away; I will a better daughter henceforward to him prove, And, where I have received so much, return at least my love. And my gentle, tender mother, making each of us her care, If I cannot quite remove her charge, I can lighten and can share; I have assumed some trifling tasks she willingly resigned, And looks upon me with such pride—ah, mother! ever kind. Yet not alone a mentor is Mr. Argentrie, In all our merry frolics he joins with heartfelt glee; He is staying at the farm adjoining to Belleaire, Though indeed I must confess he is very seldom there. And when I wish to mount upon my pretty milk-white steed, He is waiting to assist and escort me in my need; And thus we two explore each lane, and every prospect round; I never such enjoyment in the balls with Harry found. Come see us, dearest Laura, while "the bloom is on the rye," For summer with its glories will soon be hastening by. My mother looks so beautiful, and Fan and Charles so gay, I would that we at bright Belleaire the year entire might stay. Come quickly, and enjoy with us our rural life serene, And add another pleasure to your happy coz, Pauline.
To Charles Gavan Duffy, Esq., the gifted editor of the "Dublin Nation" newspaper, my first literary patron and esteemed friend, I beg leave to dedicate these lines. SONG TO C. G. D. BY WILLIAM P. MULCHINOCK. Beside the dark blue ocean I wander free, I wander free, And sweep with fond devotion My lyre for thee, my lyre for thee; And if the strain I waken Have words of flame, have words of flame, Whence bright hope may be taken— From thee they came, from thee they came. Mine eye was ever laden With slavish tears, with slavish tears; My heart, like timid maiden, Was full of fears, was full of fears; To tyrant mandates spoken I meekly bowed, I meekly bowed; Nor dreamed spells could be woken To curb the proud, to curb the proud. I knew not Ireland's glory, Her woes or wrongs, her woes or wrongs; I only heard the story From Saxon tongues, from Saxon tongues; And if, at times, in sorrow, My heart would ope, my heart would ope, I knew not where to borrow One ray of hope, one ray of hope. But soon thy fire fraught pages [1]Allured my sight, allured my sight, With lore from youthful sages And poets bright, and poets bright; The sweetest hope shone o'er me With blessed ray, with blessed ray, And visions bright before me Passed night and day, passed night and day. I mused by moor and mountain, Upon the past, upon the past, Until at Wisdom's fountain I drank at last, I drank at last; I learned to laugh at danger Like hero brave, like hero brave— I longed to meet the stranger With naked glave, with naked glave. By thee Truth's light was given Unto the blind, to me the blind; By thee the clouds were riven, That dimmed the mind, that dimmed the mind; And if the strain I waken Have words of flame, have words of flame, Whence bright hope may be taken, From thee they came, from thee they came. [2]
SONNET.—LIGHT. BY WM. ALEXANDER. Where is thy dwelling place, all-pleasing Light? Around Jehovah's everlasting throne, Where, inaccessible, He sits alone, 'Mid joy supreme, ineffable delight. Thy radiant face makes all wide Nature glad; Hill, valley, rock, and river thou dost cheer, And little birds make melody, if thou appear— Deprived of thy fond presence, they are sad. Thou art another synonym for life; Thy smile is but the smile of Deity, Whose glance fills ever overflowingly The lamps of heaven, with golden beauty rife Thy magic pencil paints the landscapes all; Thy absence covers earth with pall funereal.
ODE FROM HORACE. BY EDW. NEWTON VAN SANT. Not the clamor of the ignoble crowd, Not the threat'ning look of the tyrant proud, Nor the fury with which Auster raves, Wild king of the Adriatic waves; Nor e'en the mighty arm of Jove, Hurling his bolts through the vault above, Can swerve the man of just intent From that on which his mind is bent. Nay, should the shattered heavens fall, In crashing ruin blending all, Still 'mid the gath'ring gloom of chaos drear, He'd stand a stranger unto fear.
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