the mist of the night, settling upon the bosom of A stranger and a widow, unused to depend the river, hid the placid stream, or rolled heavily off towards the opening of a distant interval. And such, thought 1, as I checked my horse to contemplate the scene, such is my course-darkened now and solitary; but beyond me, and beyond this life, are scenes of happiness lit up, like that hill, with the rays of hope and promise; yet between me and those enjoyments lies a fearful passage, darkened by the mists which the night of ignorance has caused to settle upon it, deep and dangerous as my errings have made it. A train of reflections was following-reflections such as one who had sat for months in the con templations of near approaching decay, may be supposed to indulge, when iny eye, dropping from the sun-lit eminence above, rested upon an object at the distance of a few yards from us be tween the road and the river. A slight breeze dissipated the mist from the spot, and I discovered a female, apparently lifeless, stretched on the ground. Alighting from my horse, I approached within a few feet of the woman, when she raised her head suddenly from the little eminence upon which it had rested, and showed a face that had once been beautiful, marred by continual sorrow, and inflamed by recent indulgence of grief. With a hasty apology for what might appear an impertinent intrusion, and proffering what aid I could bestow, if any should be needed, I withdrew a few yards; but whether the lady felt that there was something in her appearance and situation that required explanation, or whether my wasted, consumptive form, and hollowed sallow cheek forbade a thought of intrusion, and invited confidence, I cannot tell-she hastily adjusted her hair and dress, and beckoned me with the solemnity of grief to approach. With those feelings that affliction ever excites, I complied with the intimation, and soon discovered that 1 was in the company of one for whom education and affection had done much, but deep and lasting sorrow more. I respectfully tendered anew to the female whatever assistance her circumstances might demand and mine would allow. "I am alone," she said, "in the world, and the little that nature requires is easily obtained. All that life had valuable, has been taken from me; and death which to some is a dreadful consideration, I contemplate with pleasing satisfaction while I wait it with resigned patience. Not my afflictions, but their consequences, have prepared me for that event; and I look with pleasure to the rapidly approaching time when 1 shall lie beneath the hillock from which I have now risen, and none shall be able to call me back to the bitterness of my earthly lot. All that was dear to me in life is there, and where my earthly treasures are deposited, there my heart is also." I learned from the lady, that her husband had left England with a view of establishing himself in this country; and, after residing in Philadelphia a few months he sent to her a letter, acquainting her with his prospects of business, directing her to dispose of whatever property she had, and to come with the children to him. She complied with his request, and arrived in America ten days after the death of her husband. upon herself, she at first almost sunk beneath a family of blacks. Here with "Death was busy with my household; in three months four of my children were brought to this spot. And perhaps the last would have been with them, but for a change of the atmosphere that checked the progress of disease. How strong is a mother's love! All the affection which had diffused itself over my four children, had centred with deep intensity upon him that had been spared, my youngest boy. Let a mother indulge her fondness. He was beautiful; poverty had not crushed his spirits; and, knowing little of other joys, he had moulded even his childish sports to my wishes. How often, as I threw back the clustering curls, to impress upon his polished forehead a mother's kiss, has my heart ached at the thought that we must separate; that before long 1 must be with those dear ones that had gone, and then who would watch over my Albert. The cold charities of public provision, meted out to him among a squalid race, cradled in misery, and nurtured in crime; what were these to one-poor, poor indeed, but endowed with an appetency for good, and taught to love virtue, not for its reward, but for its existence? "It is now three weeks since, finding some necessity to visit the seat of our opulent neighbour, I left my Albert in care of the house, with especial charge to guard the little enclosure. My errand was unusually fortunate: and as 1 hastened home I thought of the delight that my child would evince on contemplating an acquisition, which by the kindness of a lady, I had made. I thought of the smile that was to play over his features, as he should come bounding along the pathway to greet my return, and aid me in carrying my well stowed bundle. "I approached the house, but Albert did not appear. I looked when he should spring from behind a tree to surprise me, and even conned the little monition which I should give him for the rudeness that yet could not offend. He was perhaps studying his lesson, and did not think of THE MOTHER. my returning; for children forget often, very often, when a parent's heart yearns most for them. Agitated with undefinable fears, I hastened forward, and when within a few paces of the house, I discovered my lamb sitting and leaning against the trunk of a large tree. For the moment the blood curdled at my heart, and thoughts, thick coming and fearful passed my mind with a rapidity that none but a parent, an afflicted and suffering parent, can know." The woman paused, and laying her hand on my arm, said inquiringly-" You are a father?" I bowed assent. "And have mourned the loss of a child?" again she asked. The tear that smote her hand, as it still rested on my arm, told her that I could sympathise with her. "I may then proceed, for only to a parent may a parent tell her woes. But still you cannot know it all. No, a mother only, only a mother may drink of that cup! Oh! how a mother loves her boy-and that one, one spared from all--I have held him to my bosom in moments of deep feeling, when sorrow, poverty and despair have chilled every current from the heart. I have pressed my Albert there, and, one by one, the remembrance of those fled away, a smile lighted up my countenance, and the blood gushed through my veins with the elastic play of youth. "But let me not weary you-I stepped towards the child---he was asleep. I gazed with a mother's fondness, and with a mother's pride. The sun was pouring his setting beams upon his face, and the wind scattered the curls of that hair that lay in such profusion on his shoulders. I kneeled to kiss and bless the boy, and thanked God that he was spared me. "That night Albert awoke with a hoarseness, and other indications of a cold, caught probably while sleeping in the open air. 1 resorted to the usual applications, but in vain. The next day saw him worse, and the medical adviser, who visited him on the third day, expressed serious apprehensions. Let me hasten to a close. The night succeeding, as I sat with my Albert on my knees, I noticed that the filmy whiteness which had rested on his eyes during the day, had passed off; they were brilliant beyond the brightness of health. I knew the approaches of death too well to be deceived, yet I gazed with agonizing intensity. The lamp poured a pale light upon his visage, over which the hectic flush was passing. 'Mother, dear mother,' died away half Mother articulated by the angel: a slight convulsion distorted his lip, and---I was left alone. When the physician came the next morning, he found me sitting in my chair, and Albert on my knees. "They buried him here---here with all my flock---all in one grave---over which I kneel so often that not one blade of grass springs above them-nor must it-the earth will soon be removed for me; and when I sleep with my babes, the grass will grow over us;---for there will be none, no, not one, to shed a tear upon our resting place---for I am alone---all, all alone." 103 and her oldest son left that country for India, more than twelve years since, and though certain intelligence of their death had not been received, still there was not a doubt that they had fallen victims to disease incident to the interior of Hindostan. When I turned to leave the scene of affliction that I had witnessed, the mist of the morning had passed away from the river, and the whole width of the stream lay before me, glistening in silvery whiteness with the rays of the rising sun. Half an hour before, absorbed in my feelings, I had likened the river and its dark folds of mist, to death; does not sympathy in the woes of others diminish the burden of our own affliction, and tend to chase even darkness and fears from that passage which all must tread! A few days subsequent to the interview which I have described, an advertisement in the public papers called for information relative to a family, the description of which answered in many particulars to that of the afflicted mother. I called at the "Mansion House" for the adver.. tiser, and found in a young and interesting stranger, the son who was supposed to have died in India. I acquainted him in haste, with the situation of his family, and could scarce restrain him from setting out immediately to find his parent. I knew too well the state of her health to allow such rashness. As he approached the abode of his mother, I proposed alighting first, and preparing her in some measure for the interview. When we arrived at the opening in the bushes through which I had first discovered her, kneeling beside the unsodded grave, I urged my companion to pass on. The noise of our horses disturbed her; she raised her head and a smile of recognition rested upon her face as she rose to meet me. "Still," said she, "still, like Rachel mourning for my children, refusing to be comforted." "Yet madam," said I, " there may be comfort; the survivors may, by kindness and sympathy, teach you, if not to mourn the loss for the dead, at least to live for the living." "There is no such hope," said she, "I can say with the afflicted one of old---Lover and friend thou hast put far from me, and mine acquaintance into darkness." "But you mentioned a son in India." 66 I mentioned him as dead," said she. "But, madam," I replied, replie "I have reason to believe, nay to know, that he did not die at the time to which you refer." "Does he live now? Is he alive?" asked the mother with haste. "The young man who accompanies me has seen your son, and can give certain information of his welfare. Shall I call him hither, or will you see him at the house?" "Here, even here; my home is on the grave of my children." I stepped to the road, and beckoned to the young man. He approached the grave in some haste. -"You have seen my son, you know him--you can tell me, his mother, of his welfare?"The youth lifted his dark eye, swimming with tears, and vainly attempted to reply. He scarcely When the paroxysm of passion had passed off, I asked whether she had not relations in England. She replied in the negative. A brother | articulated his name and the mother and the son 104 TO A MUSICAL BOX-THE SISTERS. rushed into each other's arms, and knelt down | into a convulsive embrace upon the grave, the altar of her morning sacrifice. When the son attempted to rise, his mother fell from his arms pale and lifeless! The gush of pleasure had been too strong, she had breathed her last blessing upon the bosom of her son: and now lay unconscious of joys or sorrows. The son, in a few weeks, returned to India. The mother is buried with her child upon the banks of the Schuylkill; and many young readers will perhaps lengthen their morning walk in the coming summer, to see whether there is a rose upon the bush that I have placed at the head of the grave. From the New York Mirror. Poor little sprite! in that dark. narrow cell, And drink the starry dew drops as they fell? Whilst thou, in darkness, sing'st thy life away? Of all that lives, save that which is not free! To every bud, with honey dew distilling. Thy homeward flight back to the greenwood gay; By absence touched, or clouded o'er with wo. Written for the Casket. THE SISTERS. "And she will be his bride; For a heartless deceiver. Of this anguish, my Mother." The room was small, but the splendid and almost oriental style of magnificence with which it was furnished, left not a doubt that it was the boudoir of some favourite of fortune: the carpet so thick and soft, that the heavy tread of the mailed warrior could not be distinguished from the soft fairy tread of beauty; the low and velvet covered couches, the large mirrors, the splendid pictures, whose style bespoke them from no less masters than Titian or Claude; the marble tables, the rich curtains, all spoke of wealth, taste and elegance. But with this splendour there was a certain something, which told the inmate was careless or indifferent to it all. On a small centre table of the purest Italian marble, stood a rich porcelain vase filled with rare exotics; but they languished and looked nearly witheredbooks and engravings strewed the table, but they too lay untouched and unopened-a guitar and a harp stood near, but several of the strings of both were broken. On a beautifully arranged toilet table lay a casket of rich and sparkling gems-the casket was half upset, and many of the trinkets laid strewed about in confusion. Turn now from this minutia, and look at the inhabitant of this apartment, and tell me if happiness dwells with wealth and splendour. On a low crimson Ottoman reclined a fair being who might have been thought to be as inanimate as the objects around her, except for the low passionate sob that at times burst from her bosom, as if her very heart were breaking; she was even in her sorrow an exquisitely beautiful creature: her fairy and perfect form; the infant-like delicacy and purity of y of her complexion; her head of Grecian like dignity; the profusion of dark curls, which shadowed without concealing the intellectual loveliness of her pale face, all bespoke her lovely; she had apparently but just returned from a ball or party, if one could judge by the elegance and costliness of her dress, which was of white silvered crape, confined at the wrists and waist by bracelets and a girdle of pearls, with a rich twisted necklace and pendants of the same; a pearl bandeau, in which was fastened a plume of white feathers, lay on the floor as if dropped from the head by accident. "Yes," she exclaimed in a low broken voice, "she will be his bride, and I-what am I-a poor despised creature, looked on with indifference, perhaps with hate, by the being I feel I yet adore -he will be happy while I am miserable; but I deserve it all. Oh, that I could die and be at peace," again she wept bitterly. A low tap was heard at the door, and before she had time to refuse admittance, a fairy form glided into the As the prickliest leaves are the driest, so the pertest fel- room, and in a moment was locked in her arms. lows are generally the most barren. "My own sister," "dearest Helen," was all that THE SISTERS. was uttered by either for some moments; at length the visitor rose up from her fervent embrace and seated herself on a low stool, at the side of the couch, while her sister, (for such she was) as if overcome again, sunk back in her reclining position, and gave vent to a fresh burst of tears, still clasping sping the hand of the fair intruder in her own. "Tell me, my own Helen, what ails you-is this my welcome, after months of sepation:-am I instead of meeting with your own gladsome smiles to be greeted with tears. Tell me," she continued, throwing herself on her knees, and pressing her lips to the pale cold forehead, "what can possibly ail you: are you sick; you cannot be unhappy, surely, or your own Cecile would long ere this have known of your griefs and flew to soothe them: if you are ill, cheer up and smile upon me, and your own sister shall be your faithful nurse. With so kind a husband, and all else your heart can desire, you must be happy." "Happy," murmured the lady, while her very frame seemed shook with the agony those words called up, "happy-never in this world-my happy days are over, Cecile." She seemed quite overcome, and Cecile forbore to answer her, lest she should renew sorrows which she wished to alleviate: she at length insensibly sunk into a light slumber, whilst the young and beautiful being, who seemed by her bright and radient face never to have known sorrow, bent over her with the anxiety of a fond mother, watching her sleeping infant, afraid to move lest she should disturb the sleeper. She continued in her kneeling posture, watching the countenance of her sister. "And I thought she was happy-no, she is not," thought the gentle girl, as she gazed in painful silence upon the altered features of Helen. Her moans and inarticulate murmurs sometimes escaped from her as if her sleep were far from peaceful; at length, after a deeper moan, she opened her languid blue eyes, and they fell upon her gentle nurse, "my sister," she exclaimed with a mournful smile, "how good you are thus to watch over me; but will you not retire, it is late, and I in my selfishness had forgotten that you have walked far, and must feel fatigued." "No, no, my sister, I cannot sleep; wherefore then leave you. I am miserable, for you are so: let me know what is the cause of your unhappiness, and if I cannot relieve, at least your Cecile can weep with you." Helen had risen at the close of her sister's remark, and for a minute paced the room with quick and hurried tread, as if to escape some painful recollection: at length seating herself by a low window, where the moon poured her silver rays upon her face, she said, "The task is a painful one, but to you I have long wished to speak freely-yes, it will console me to know there is one to sympathize with me." She pressed her hand forcibly to her head, as if to still the throbbing temples, and with a low faltering voice commenced, "You know I am your senior, by several years-you know, too, how dearly we have loved, and how bitter were the tears we shed when I was sent for home from school, and obliged to be parted from you: all this you know; but you know not, that dearly as I loved you, my sorrow was evanescent. 1 was going into that gay world, into whose scenes I had so often entered in my waking as well as 105 midnight dreams-I sighed at our close confinement to studies, our simple recreations, and our country situation-I wanted to visit the gay balls, parties, theatres, &c. which I had so often read of: and more than all this, I earnestly wished to love and to be beloved. With all these thoughts thronging in my young heart, can even you wonder that my tears were soon vanished. You know that I arrived safely at my mother's splendid mansion, and she received me with a mixture of affection and gratified pride, and prophesied I would make a 'brilliant match.' I was introduced to the gay world, and entered with pleasure into its extravagancies and follies. I was styled beautiful, known to be wealthy, and was therefore followed by many admirers, but my heart remained untouched. Even then, my sister, my heart would oft times pine for your society, and I would wish myself back, a simple happy school girl. So true it is, that pleasures, however delightful in imagination, lose much from constant repetition. I wished for someting to love and to be loved. My mother was kind and 1 respected her; but her manners were not calculated to gain her children's love, and consequently she was not my confidant. Unhappy situation when a daughter may not confide in a mother. Who so suitable a friend, a guide, an adviser as a mother. You may remember our sweet friend, Rosa Evelyn, who was married shortly after I left schcol, and for whom I was bridesmaid; it was at her happy home that I first met her cousin, Eugene Evelyn, that I first knew what love was." A long silence followed these words, as if they called up scenes too painfully pleasing for memory to dwell upon. "Enough, my sister, to say I was beloved and loved devotedly; a few happy months flew round, and then I was awoke from my dream of blissmy mother was petrified and enraged at the idea of an alliance destitute of all that she thought made an alliance desirable; that is, wealth and rank. She forbade my again seeing Eugene. Fear not duty led me to obey her; for oh, how will you believe me when I tell you, that knowing my fortune to depend entirely upon my mother, I dared not, much as I loved, encounter privations and want of luxuries. In short, I dreaded poverty (or an approach to it) as one of the greatest evils in life. I received from my lover many letters breathing affection and tenderness, and conjuring me to fly with him." 'If,' he said in one of his letters, 'if, dearest Helen, your mother's refusal was grounded on the idea that I was vicious or dissipated, I would not urge you to flight; I would strive to convince her of her error and gain her esteem: but no, she would sacrifice the peace, the happiness of her daughter, of me, for what-because I possess not wealth. I ask not your fortune: I have competence, and if faithful love and constant endeavour, on my part, to make you happy, can make up for the luxuries, the splendour of your home, then consent, my own love, to unite your fate to mine.' And yet, even after I had read these precious lines, I became another's-yes, turn not away, sweet sister; relax not the grasp of those dear hands, I feel too deeply my own unworthiness, to bear even your unintentional marks of sorrow. Wrought upon by my habitual fear and respect of my mother-won upon (I blush to own it) by the splendid presents, the ❘ of the lady. He asked me if he should call my house, the equipage of Sir William Ethrington, carriage; I gladly assented, and taking his offer I consented, in an evil hour, to become his bride; and now," she added, breathing lowly, as if the breath came from the very recess of her heart, "now comes the heart-breaking scene:-1 had heard that Eugene had been informed of my conduct and my marriage; that he felt that his love had been thrown away upon an unworthy object, and consequently he felt for me an utter contempt: so, at least, I was told. It has now been near a twelvemonth since my marriage, when, partly to gratify my husband, and partly to chase away gloomy feelings, I consented to go to a large party this evening at Lady Ranehath's.Sir William was forced to leave me at the door, as he was engaged elsewhere. I entered the brilliant apartments, blazing with lights and beauty; I had hardly reached my seat, when my eye fell upon-Eugene Evelyn; not as I had once heard of him, pale and dejected, but looking as when I first saw him, radient with smiles and health. On his arm leaned a beautiful delicate girl, whom, however, at that time, 1 scarcely observed, being so entirely taken up with watching Eugene. He did not see me, but continued in earnest conversation with the lady. As I stood in a deep recess, I could, unobserved by any, watch his ever-varying countenance: and oh, how bitter were my feelings at that moment. My musical powers, which your fond affection used to magnify into something extraordinary, were, even in the gay world, in requisition; and accordingly I was soon surrounded by many urging me to play and sing. It was in vain that I pleaded indisposition, and with a heavy heart I at length consented to be led into the musicroom, hoping that I was not perceived by Eugene. Feeling in a dull mood, I pitched upon the first song that was handed me; it was a low, melancholy tune, and seemed suited to my feelings. It ended with the following verse: "Give me, of cold oblivion's wave, A draught, in sorrow's chalice sad; Past are the dreams which once could glad!" Much agitated after singing, I arose and was at length permitted to move away, while a lady took my place at the piano. 'How handsome Mr. Evelyn looks,' said a voice near me. I involuntary looked up and encountered the earnest look of Eugene-he bowed and I immediately turned my eyes away; but a conversation that happened near me, attracted my sole attention. It was about him who alone I loved. After speaking for some time highly in his praise, one of the ladies remarked, 'do you know that it is a positive fact, that he is engaged to be married to the lady he is with? Yes, I heard that she was to be the bride, the blessed bride of my own Eugene. I fainted, and when I recovered it was to find myself supported by him, whilst the fair girl, whom I had seen with him, was gently bathing my burning brow. Oh! happy, too happy moment-would that I had died even then; but no, such a blessed lot was not mine. When he found I had recovered, he resigned me to the arms of Lady Mary Clinton, which I heard as the name ed arm was led, more dead than alive, to the door. As he lifted me in the carriage he pressed my hand, 'You have my forgiveness, Helen, I am happy; would that you were so too.' 'Never, oh! never, shall I be happy again, Eugene; my heart is breaking.' He gave me a thrilling look of pity: even yet I see it!-pressed my hand to his lips and closed the door. All else is a blank to me until I found myself here." She ceased and leaned her burning brow on the marble slab, as if to cool it, while her young sister wept without restraint. "I have wearied you almost to death, my own sweet Cecile, let us both kneel now in earnest prayer, even as when we were children together, and then let us seek a little rest." The two fair sisters knelt down; the one in her single innocence, the other in her deep unhappiness, and remained long in fervent holy prayer. When they arose, though their eyes were still filled with tears, there was a holy serenity visible in the features of both, lovely to behold. They together laid down to court a little repose. Tired nature at length sunk exhausted, and it was late in the day ere Cecile awoke, and recalled to recollection the painful scenes of the last night. She arose gently and stood by her sister's side. "How lovely, how angelic she looks! and what a sweet smile beams on her features. I cannot wake her-sleep on, sweet sister: be at least happy in your dreams." So saying, she stooped over her and pressed her rosy lips to the pale forehead of a corpse. When Cecile was recovered from a long, deep swoon, she found that she had not been deceived. Helen's gentle frame had sunk under the pressure of misery; and though she mourned for her sister, she could not but rejoice that her unhappiness was at an end. It was midnight, when Cecile went to take a last look at the lovely remains of her beloved sister, beautiful even in death. She reposed upon that couch from whence she was to be conveyed to the dark and silent tomb! Her large blue eyes were closed, and the long, dark lash lay on her fair cheeks; a striking contrast; a sweet smile yet played round her lips, which even death had not robbed of their coral like hue-she looked as placid as a sleeping infant. She was buried with pomp and splendour, and the only tears shed for her in real sorrow, were by Cecile and Eugene, who attended her funeral. As for her husband, he had always admired her, but love with him had no existence. He considered a wife as a necessary appendage, and had chosen out a beautiful one, only because she was the fashion, and was sought by others. Eugene was in a few months happily married to Lady Mary Clinton, and their first girl was by Lady Mary's request, named after the unfortunate Helen. Cecile also married a man in every way deserving of her; and unlike her sister, looked only for virtue and goodness in her choice, and consequently enjoyed much happiness. But it was long ere she ceased to think of and regret the mournful lot of one who was led away by the luxuries and vanities of this life from peace and happiness. ADELE. |