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And which I could not leave to-day, Even with the snow and you to play.
It was on such a night as this,
Six hundred years ago,
As loaded with the snow,
Captain Peter Slater, one of the " Indians” who threw the taxed tea into Boston harbor. It was a moment of humiliation and indignant grief, when passing by his monument, we compared the taxes on tea and sugar of his day, with that despotic land tax, that slave-breeding incumbrance, that Shylock mortgage which the founders of our Constitution imposed upon every square inch of New England, in the terms of the or bond."
We have now neither time nor space to tell the story of that young fugitive. We wish he might tell it himself upon every hearthstone of New Eng. Jand. We wish no human heart a needless unpleasant emotion; but we would that every child in this « land of the free” might see a slave,-a being that OWNS A God, yet owned, and bound, and beat, and sold by man.
We would have the rising generation well instructed in the terms of the bond,” and a few personal illustrations of the condition which it "secures” might be a service in defining their path of duty. They will soon enter upon this goodly heritage ; and shall we give it over into their hands en. cumbered with this iniquitous entailment in favor of slavery ? No! if there be wealth enough in all New England's jewels—in the cabinet of her great deeds of virtue and patriotism-let us lift this bloody mortgage from one square acre of her soil, whereupon the hunted slave may say, “ I thank my God that I too am at last a Man!” When trembling and panting, he struck his foot on that consecrated spot, then the chase should cease, though his master and his dogs were at his heels. That English acre in New England should be another Canada for the fugitive bondman. He should carry a handful of its soil in his bosom as a certificate, honored throughout the world, that he was FREE.
A lone! this fragile human flower,
A creature of delight,
And phantom of the night!
A CHRISTMIS TALE.
BY RICHARD MONKTON MILNES.
The windows and the garden door ,
Must now be closed for night, And you, my little girl, no more
Can watch the snow-flakes white Fall, like a silver net, before
The face of dying light. Draw down the curtains every fold, Let not a gap let in the cold, Bring your low seat toward the fire, And you shall have your heart's desire; A story of that favorite book, In which you often steal a look, Regretful not to understand Words of a distant time and land ;That small square book that seems so old In tawny white and faded gold,
Beneath a carven porch, before
And all the fire side bliss
On such a night as this.
How can those hands so small and frail,
Standing in senseless hardihood
Between the warmth and love and mirth,
To suffer without sin,
A bitter discipline.
W'ithin this house, if e'er on earth
When I am gone,
To lean upon,
Yet now the tiny hands no more
On a sweet mother's knee,
But always happily.
Though for those holy words the storm
The child looks out into the night,
And give to love its due,
And cries " With you, with you,-
Three kisses on its dead-cold cheeks,
Three on its bloodless brow, And a clear answering music speaks,
"Sweet brother! come there now: It shall be so; there is no dread
Within the auriole of mine head ;
Softly the carol chant is sung,
Till, by an almond tree,
May o'er it soonest be.
BY N. P. WILLIS.
So down the mansions slippery stair,
Into the midnight weather, Pass, as if sorrow never were,
The weak and strong together. This was the night before the morn On which the Hope of Man was born, And long ere dawn can claim the sky, The tempest rolls subservient by; While bells on all sides sing and say, How Christ the child was born to-day; Free as the sun's in June, the rays Mix merry with the Yuhl-log's blaze ; Some butterflies of snow may float Down slowly, glistening in the mote, But crystal-leaved and fruited trees Scarce lose a jewel in the breeze; Frost-diamonds twinkle on the grass,
Transformed from pearly dew, And silver flowers encrust the glass,
Which gardens never knew. The inmates of the house, before Whose iron-fended heedless door, The children of our nightly tale Were standing, rise refreshed and bale, And run, as if a race to win, To let the Christmas morning in. They find upon the threshold stone, A little child just like their own; Asleep, it seems, but when the head Is raised, it sleeps as sleep the dead The fatal point had touched it, while The lips had just begun a smile, The forehead 'mid the matted tresses A perfect painless end expresses, And, unconvuls'd, the hands may wear The posture more of thanks than prayer.
Tickler.-I will accompany you on the poker and tongs.
SHEPHERD.-I hae nae objections— for you've not only a sowl for music, sir, but a genius too, and the twa dinna always gang thegither-mony a mon haein' as fine an ear for tunes, as the starnies on a dewy nicht, that listen to the grass growin' roun' the vernal primroses, and yet na able to play on ony instrument-on even the flute-let abee the poker and tangs.
Noctes AMBROSIANE. I am not known as a lover of music. I seldom praise the player upon an instrument, or the singer of song. I stand aside if I listen, and I keep the mea. sure in my heart without beating it audibly with my foot, or moving my head visibly in a practised abstraction There are times when I do not listen at all; and it may be that the mood is not on me, or that the spell is mastered by Beauty, or that I hear a human voice, whose every whisper is sweeter than all. There are some who are said to have a passion for music, and they will turn away at the beginning of a song, though it be only a child's lesson, and leave gazing on an eye that was, perhaps, like shad. ed water, or the forehead of a beautiful woman, or the lip of a young girl, to listen. I cannot boast that my love of music is so strong. I confess that there are things I know that are often an overcharm, tho' not always; and I would not give up my slavery to their power, if I might be believed to have gone mad at an opera, or have my “ bravo” the signal for the applause of a city.
There is unwritten Music. The world is full of it. I hear it every hour that I wake, and my waking sense is surpassed sometimes by my sleepingthough that is a mystery. There is no sound of sim. ple nature that is not Music. It is all Heaven's work, and so harmony. You may mingle and divide, and strengthen the passages of its great anthem, and and it is still melody-melody. The winds of
summer blow over the waterfalls and the brooks, and bring their voices to your ear as if their sweet
ness was linked by an accurate finger; yet the wind is but a fitful player; and you may go out when the tempest is up, and hear the strong trees moaning as they lean before it, and the long grass hissing as it
They tend it straight in wondering grief,
sweeps through, and its own solemn monotony over, friends comfort me and smile pleasantly on me, and all—and the dimple of that same brook, and the feel willing that I should be released from sorrow, waterfall's unaltered bass, shall still reach you in and perplexity, and disease, and go up, now that my the intervals of its power, as much in harmony as race was finished, joyfully to my reward. And if before, and as much a part of its perfect and perpetu- it be allotted to me, as I pray it will, to die in the al hymn. There is no accident of Nature's causing summer time, I would be borne out into the open which can bring in discord. The loosened rock may sky, and have my pillow listed that I might see the fall into the abyss, and the overblown tree rush glory of the setting sun, and pass away, like him, down through the branches of the wood, and the with undiminished light, to another world. thunder peal awfully in the sky; and, sudden and It is not mere poetry to talk of the “ voices of violent as these changes seem, their tumult goes up summer." It is the day time of the year, and its with the sound of wind and water; and the exqui- myriad influences are audibly at work. Even at site ear of the musician can detect no jar.
night you may lay yonr ear to the ground, and hear I have read somewhere of a custom in the High- that faintest of murmurs, the sound of growing lands, which, in connection with the principle it in things. I used to think when I was a child that it volves, is exceedingly beautiful. It is believed that, was fairy music. - If you have been used to rising to the ear of the dying-which just before death be early, you have not forgotten how the stillness of comes always exquisitely acute-the perfect harmo- the night seems increased by the timid note of the ny of the voices of nature is so ravishing as to make first bird. It is the only tiine when I would lay a him forget his suffering, and die gently, like one in finger on the lip of nature- the deep hush is so very a pleasant trance. And so when the last moment solemn. By and by, however, the birds are approaches, they take him from the close shieling, all up, and the peculiar holiness of the hour declines, and bear him out into the open sky, that he may hear but what a world of music does the world shine the familiar rushing of the streams. I can believe on! the deep lowing of the cattle blending in with that it is not superstition. I do not think we know the capricious warble of a thousand of heaven's haphow exquisitely nature's many voices are attuned to py creatures, and the stir of industry coming on the harmony, and to each other. The old philosopher we air like the under tones of a choir, and the voice of read of might not have been dreaming when he dis. man, heard in the distance over all, like a singer covered that the order of the sky was a scroll of among instruments, giving them meaning and lanwritten music, and that two stars—which are said to guage! And then, if your ear is delicate, you have lave appeared centuries after his death in the very minded all these sounds grow softer and sweeter, as places he mentioned-were wanting to complete the the exhalations of the dew floated up, and the vibraharmony. We know how wonderful are the phenome- tions loosened in the thin air. na of color; how strangely like consummate art the You should go out some morning in June and lisstrongest dyes are blended in the plumage of birds, ten to the notes of the birds. They express far and the cups of flowers ; so that to the practised eye more than our own, the characters of their owners. of the painter the harmony is inimitably perfect. It From the scream of the vulture and the eagle, to the is natural to suppose every part of the universe low cooing of the dove, they are all modified by equally perfect, and it is a glorious and elevating their habits of support, and their consequent dispothought, that the stars of heaven are moving on con- sitions. With the small birds the voice appears to tinually to music, and that the sounds we daily listen be but an outpouring of gladness, and it is a pleato are but a part of a melody that reaches to the sure to see that without one articulate word it is so very centre of heaven's illimitable spheres. sweet a gift to them ; it seems a necessary vent to
Pardon me a digression here, reader. Aside from their joy of existence, and I believe in my heart that the intention of the custom just alluded to, there is a dumb bird would die of its imprisoned fulness. something delightful in the thought of thus dying in Nature seems never so utterly still to me as in the the open air. I had always less horror of death than depths of a summer afternoon. The heat has driven of its ordinary gloomy circumstances. There is in the birds, and the leaves hang motionless on the something unnatural in the painful and extravagant trees, and no creature has the heart, in that faint sul. sympathy with which the dying are surrounded. It triness, to utter a sound. The snake sleeps on the is not such a gloomy thing to die. The world has rock, and the frog lies breathing in the pool, and even pleasant places, and I would hear in my last hour the murmur that is heard at night is inaudible, for the voice and the birds, and the chance music I may the herbage droops beneath the sun, and the seed has have loved ; but better music, and voices of more no strength to burst its covering. The world is ravishing sweetness, and far pleasanter places, are still, and the pulses beat languidly. It is a time for found in heaven, and I cannot feel that it is well or sleep. natural to oppress the dying with the distressing But if you would hear one of Nature's most vari. wretchedness of common sorrow. I would be leted and delicate harmonies, lie down in the edge of go cheerfully from the world. I would have my thc wood when the evening breeze begins to stir, and listen to its coming. It touches first the silver foli- 1 your mind is not idle. It realizes my dream of an. age of the birch, and the slightly hung leaves, at other world, where music is intuitive like a thought, its merest breath, will lift and rustle like a thousand and comes only when it is remembered. tiny wings, and then it creeps up to the tall fir, and And the frost, too, has a melodious « miniştry." the fine tassels send out a sound like a low whisper, You will hear its crystals shoot in the dead of a and as the oak feels its influence, the thick leaves clear night, as if the moonbeams were splintering stir heavily, and a deep tone comes suddenly out like arrows on the ground; and you listen to it the like the echo of a far off bassoon. They are all more earnestly that it is the going on of one the most wind-harps of different power, and as the breeze cunning and beautiful of nature's deep mysteries. I strengthens and sweeps equally over them all, their know nothing so wonderful as the shooting of a crysunited harmony has a wonderful grandeur and tal. Heaven has hidden its principle as yet from the beauty.
inquisitive eye of the philosopher, and we must be Then what is more soothing than the dropping of the content to gaze on its exquisite beauty, and listen in rain? You should have slept in a garret to know how mute wonder to the noise of its invisible workmanit can lull and bring dreams. How I have lain, when ship. It is too fine a knowledge for us.
We shall a boy, and listened to the fitful patter of the large comprehend it when we know how the “ morning drops upon the roof, and held my breath as it grew stars sang together." fainter and fainter, till it ceased utterly, and I heard You would hardly look for music in the drearinothing but the rnshing of the strong gust and the ness of the early winter. But before the keener rattling of the panes. I used to say over my pray- frosts set in, and while the warm winds are yet stealers and think of the apples I had stolen then! But ing back occasionally, like regrets of the departed were you ever out fishing upon a lake, in a smart summer, there will come a soft rain or a heavy shower ? It is like the playing of musical glasses. mist; and, when the north winds return, there will be The drops ring out with a clear, bell-like tinkle, fol. drops suspended like ear-ring jewels between the lowing each other sometimes so closely that it re- filaments of the cedar tassels and in the feathery sembles the winding of a distant horn ; and then, edges of the dark green hemlocks, and, if the clear. in the momentary intervals, the bursting of the thou- ing up is not followed by a heavy wind, they will all sand tiny bubbles comes stealthily on your ear, more be frozen in their places like well-set gems. The like the recollection of a sound than a distinct murmur. next morning the warm sun comes out, and by the Not that I fish; I was ever a milky-hearted boy, and middle of the calm, dazzling forenoon, they are all had a foolish notion that there was pain in the rest loosened from the close touch which sustains them, less death of those panting and beautiful creatures ; and will drop at the lightest motion. If you go along but I loved to go out with the old men when the day upon the south side of the wood at that hour, you set in with rain, and lie dreamily over the gunwale will hear music. The dry foliage of the summer's listening to the changes of which I have spoken. It shedding is scattered over the ground, and the hard had a quieting effect on my temper, and stilled for round drops ring out clearly and distinctly as awhile the uneasiness of that vague longing that is they are shaken down with the stirring of the like a fever at a boy's heart.
breeze. It is something like the running of deep There is a melancholy music in Autumn. The and rapid water, only more fitful and merrier ; but leaves float sadly about with a peculiar look of deso. to one who goes out in nature with his heart open, it lateness, wavering capriciously in the wind, and is a pleasant music, and, in contrast with the stern falling with a just andible sound that is a very sigh character of the season, delightful. for its sadness. And then, when the breeze is fresher Winter has many other sounds that give pleasure -though the early autumn months are mostly still— to the seeker for hidden sweetness ; but they are they are swept on with a cheerless rustle over the too rare and accidental to be described distinctly. naked harvest fields and about in the eddies of the The brooks have a sullen and muffled murmur under blast; and though I have sometimes, in the glow of their frozen surface; the ice in the distant river exercise, felt my life securer in the triumph of the heaves up with the swell of the current and falls brave contrast, yet in the chillof evening, or when again to the bank with a prolonged echo, and the any sickness of mind or body was upon me, the woodman's axe rings cheerfully out from the bosom moaning of those withered leaves has pressed down of the unrobed forest. These are, at best, however, my heart like a sorrow, and the cheerful fire and the but melancholy sounds, and, like all that meets the voices of my many sisters might scarce remove it. eye in that cheerless season, they but drive in the
Then, for the music of Winter. I love to listen heart upon itself. I believe it is so ordered in heato the falling of the snow. It is an unobstrusive and ven’s wisdom. We forget ourselves in the enticesweet music. You may temper your heart to the ment of the sweet summer. Its music and its loveserenest mood by its low murmur. It is that kind liness win away the scenes that link up the affecof music that only intrudes upon your car when your tions, and we need a hand to turn us back tenderly, thoughts come languidly. You need not hear it if land hide from us the outward idols in whose wor