Here, the light twinkles, the ruddy hearth glows, Dread was the fiat which called her away, last! Our reading circle had been neglected ever since April; through a long succession of lovely months it had been neglected, and now it was well into October, when four of its members determined they would not forego its enjoyments a week longer; and had a meeting and partook of them, with a zest, I assure you. It was a sweet Saturday, and you would have thought June had returned, the air was so mild and the hills were so green and fragrant. It was Saturday afternoon, and Sabbath light seemed stealing before its time over all the mild majestic sky, and there was the spirit of Sabbath worship lifting and speaking in all the breezes. There was no parlor splendid enough to hold them indoors on such a day, and they tripped away to a hill-side, over-looking the village; took a cushion of white clover under the shadow of an oak, and devoured Longfellow's" Kavanagh. "Just the book to enjoy in this place," said George Dawson opening the dainty volume to read,-" it is itself a snatch of the freshest and most fragrant nature. And who will read first? I'm all out of breath from my frolics along the hill, and some of you must make the beginning. There, Milly, you read throw down your mosses and checkerberries, and give us the first chapter." 66 No, indeed," replied Amelia May, "that belongs to the gentlemen, unless Margaret has a mind to take it first; Edwin is not tired; let him begin it." "I may as well read first as last," said Edwin Winslow; and took the book and read the first chapter. "That is a fine opening," said Margaret Wilson; a morning in May never opened with more light and beauty. The first paragraph I must hear again." Edwin read the passage over again, 'Great men stand like solitary towers in the city of God, and secret passages running deep beneath external nature, give their thoughts intercourse with higher intelligences, which strengthens and consoles them, and of which the laborers on the surface do not even dream.' "A little too far fetched, I think for a commencement,' ," said Amelia, and taking the book, she continued, "I like this passage better. We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done.'" That is very true," said George, "but I like Margaret's paragraph; it is somewhat mystical, but there is inspiration in that thought which has lifted up my soul. And what a stroke of nature is this farther along, about the September afternoon, and the old gray flies, that buzzed and bumped their heads against the window panes. "I've seen those identical flies in old aunt Dolly Slicer's pantry this very day," exclaimed Margaret, "and Master Churchill looks like an. old acquaintance already. But, did none of you remark this grand passage: He lay down for a moment under a sycamore, and thought of the Roman consul, Licinius, passing a night with eighteen of his followers in the hollow trunk of the great Lycian planetree. From the branches overhead, the falling seeds were wafted away through the soft air on plumy tufts of down. The continuous murmur of leaves and of the swift running stream seemed rather to deepen than disturb the pleasing solitude and silence of the place; and for a moment, he imagined himself away in the broad prairies of the west, and lying beneath the luxuriant trees that overhang the banks of the Wabash and the Kaskaskia. He saw the sturgeon leap from the river, and flash for a moment in the sunshine. Then a flock of wild fowl flew across the sky'. but you know the rest; and what a wild cataract of music seems to dash, and foam, and roar in those words: Wabash' and Kaskaskia!'"' Bless you, Milly, where are your wits to-day?" exclaimed Margaret. It is a live literal baby, and what better picture could you wish? I am sure, I admire it for its naturalness; and it is such a rich dash of humor." "And how natural the whole family group," added Edwin. he paused to look at the stars-The beauty of the heavens made his soul overflow- -"" and so on to the end of the chapter. Saying this, he turned over a leaf, and read the sixth, seventh and eighth chapters, and continued: "the style is simple and delicately chaste, as the soberest Greek would have written, and, yet, what spirit throbs in the thoughts, and what fine character painting. Father Pendexter is a real being; he preaches in our village. Alice Archer I've seenthere is one Alice Archer in every New England village. Cecelia Vaughan I've seen; and Sally Manchester works at our house, the very same great-hearted Sally." Well, really you are getting into the pictures, ," said Edwin. 'You'd better reserve a little praise for the conclusion." "Did none of you notice the sweet felicity of this passage," said Margaret, taking the book and reading: The morning came, the dear, delicious, silent Sunday: to weary workmen, both of brain and hand, the beloved day of rest. When the first bell rang, like a brazen mortar, it seemed to bombard the village with bursting shells of sound, that exploded over the houses, shattering the ears of all the parishioners, and shaking the consciences of many.' 66 66 "That would be poetry if it were measured," said Amelia," and did you notice the aliiterations, how they heighten the color and bring out the roundness of the picture? dear, delicious, silent Sunday,' "We do not behold the scene at a dis-brazen,' bombard,' shells,' sound,' tance," said George, "but are taken right shattering ears,' 'shaking consciences.' into Master Churchill's house and see them The alliterations more than make up the all, and hear them for ourselves." want of measure for a poem." "I see Master Alfred now," said Margaret, "trudging sulkily up the chamber stairs rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.' Ah, say what you will, Milly, those are dear, pretty children." "I have no great fault to find," returned Amelia. "I envy Mr. Churchill his fine books," said George," and I envy Longfellow the genius that could write passages like this in the fifth chapter: She turned her eyes dreamingly upon him. Slumber was hanging in their blue orbs, like snow in the heavens ready to fall. And this,' 6 "But there is a swelling conceit in that last figure," said Edwin. "What license, even in the laws of poetry justifies a man in saying that the sound of a dear Sabbath bell shattered the ears of all the parishioners?" It is a pretty cherry, plump and fair to look at, but there is a stone in its heart. I find no fault with his pictures of Alice Archer, or Cecilia or Sally; the soul of an artist lights up their looks, and beats in their hearts; but that conceit is a ragged wart on the face of the loveliest Sunday." That is a real Sunday, though," re turned Amelia, "just such as God gives in holiest silence, and beauty, only to a country village. There is worship in the light and breath of that dear, delicious, silent Sunday."" 66 Alice and Cecilia's friendship is finely described," said Margaret; "and they were about as intimate as you and I, Milly; but, let us go on. It is my turn to read? yes, and this autumnal scene is a fine beginning." She read to the thirteenth chapter in a voice that poured delicious music from the book, and charmed the mind to silence. Like Irving's bobolink, Longfellow would have been overpowered with exstacy at his own melting melody, had he heard it set to that noble creature's voice. You never heard a voice that would rise and fall; float upon the wing; pause and expatiate, roll and revel in more luxurious sounds." "I like Sally Manchester more than ever," said Margaret, "for the spirit in which she rises and treads on that shabby dentist's jilt. I should have hated her had she continued to love the popinjay." "Would you, indeed?" inquired Edwin. Then you think you would, Margaret?" Indeed I would. It makes me mad to see a girl whining and sniffling herself to death, because a changeling has deserted her. I am sure if a man engaged to me, could find it in his nature to change his feelings towards me, I should thank him to do it before marriage, and I should be glad and rejoiced to get him out of my sight. O, I admire, I admire Sally Manchester; don't you, Milly?" "He ought to have married her." "Tut! girl, what do you mean? Think I'd had the fool after my first day's foolish love?" "I don't know about taking up one's affections so easily from an object loved, Margaret. 'The swan that swims upon the lake; "That is Byron's silly sentimentality, not mine, Milly. Give me Sally Manchester,-O, I do admire her!" Then George took the book and read: a "Some women, after a burst of pasionate tears, are soft, gentle, affectionate; warm and genial air succeeds the rain. Others clear up cold, and are breezy, black and dismal. Of the latter class were Sally Manchester and Margaret Wilson." "Ah, you rogue, you put in my name yourself! I don't care, so long as you put me where I can stand up for Sally.' "That village doctor I've seen a hun dred times," interrupted George; he is our own Dr. Faddle, without his blackshining wig." "That's a fact," added Edwin, "Dr. Faddle all over but the hair, and who knows but that is a wig, too, like Dr Faddle's ?-Isn't that a description though? vigorous, florid, encouraging, and pervaded by an indiscriminate odor of drugs. Loud voice, large cane, thick boots,— everything about him synonymous with noise." "Father Pendexter must have sat in person for his picture," said Margaret. "In his chaise, too, with old White before it," added Amelia." "And the picture is a daguereotype, for there is old White, thrashing flies, and there is his spring-halt and all," added Edwin. "And the school girl's letter, isn't that natural?" added Margaret. "Those aphorisms are quite fine," added George," and some of them are already floating in the newspapers attributed to Lacon." This is very true-"In character, in manners, in style, in all things, the supreme excellence is simplicity." And this ditto." The rays of happiness, like those of light, are colorless when unbroken." The sentence would grace a poem, glittering like a diamond on its bosom. And here is one more gush of the fluent gold of genius: "The country is lyria, the town dramatic. When mingled, they make the most perfect musical drama." through, or night will overtake us too soon. Whose turn is it now to read round again! Well, here's for a few chapters more;" and he read to chapter twenty, and they criticised his reading. One said he pronounced his vowels with too much of a drawl, rolled his r's like the cogs of a copper mill, and sounded his sts' like double s. He confessed the fault, and turned conversation to the book. All admired the description of spring, in chapter 14; all admired Mr. Kavanagh, and the scene at the aviary in the fifteenth, and the sweet rural home of the Vaughans in the chapter following. "What could be finer or sweeter," said Margaret," than this passage? Dear me! how I long to live in just such a a happy home." "Hear this, again. The house was one of the few old houses standing in New England; a large, square, building, with a portico in front, whose door in summer time stood open from morning until night. A pleasing stillness reigned about it, and soft gusts of pine-embalmed air, and distant cawing from the crow-haunted mountains, filled its airy and ample halls.'” "That reminds me somewhat of Wilson, though Wilson is a little warmer and heartier than Longfellow. That is good, though. I smell the pine on the page, and hear the distant, mellow cawings, in the words-distant cawings from the crow-haunted mountains'-that sentence is sublime and melodious." "But isn't Adolphus Hawkins a character done to the very breath and speech?" asked Margaret. "He would make a match for our Z. Montgomery Meggs," added Edwin, "but Zeb would have to pull the crinkles out of his spit curls; stop shaving his forehead; slash off his whiskers; tear off his straps, and stuff out his bosom with a little more cotton batting. Zeb is more of a lap-dog than 'ring dove,' though; but then his love for fair ladies,' and his stanzas,' to Ellen,' to Frances,' 'to Clara,' and the Lord knows who, in our Banner of Beauty,' I dare say would match Hawkins' poetry, line for line." "I have fallen in love with Alice and Cecilia," interrupted George. "Alice is such a silent, spiritual, sanctified being, and Cecilia is so buoyant, hearty, bright and happy. They are a Mary and Martha. And hear this, and tell me if it is not fine :-this, describing Cecilia in Alice's bed chamber: Unannounced she entered, and walked up the narrow and imperfectly lighted stairs to Alice's bedroom, that little sanctuary draped in white that columbarium lined with warmth, and softness, and silence. Alice was not there, but the chair by the window, the open volume of poems on the table, the note to Cecilia by its side, and the ink not yet dry in the pen, were, like the vibration of a bough, when the bird has just left it,-like the rising of the grass when the foot has just passed it.'' "That needs nothing but rhyme, to make sweet poetry," said Amelia. "It needs hardly that," added Marga"It measures very well, and do you not notice how nearly it comes rhyme? ret. to a LET US NOT BE WEARY. BY DELL A. CAULKINS. cropping the thin food around them, than upon listening to the celestial harmonies that are gradually dying away in the Strive to be patient, though weary the way, distance." As the night was advancing they resumed the reading, and finished the book just as the sun wheeled behind the western woods; and going home, while one admired the rural lunch; another pitied poor Lucy; another repeated the description of the snow; another laughed about Sally Manchester, saying Tennyson's Princess would have given her great wages for a plough-woman; and Mr. Churchill came in for a share of fun about his romance. George Dawson concluded the conversation about the book, saying, Well, I feel that I have added something to my treasures, life and bliss, by this reading. That is a book for the fields and for the fireside. I shall have times and seasons for its reperusal. It is evident, however, that it did not cost the author much labor Night, when 'tis darkest, gives promise of day; blue, Shows the bright golden gates where the angels go through, To the temples of beauty, the home of the blest, Where tears are no more, and the world weary rest. O, there in that land of our Father-our God, Shall see, and acknowledge that God in His might, Hath made our yoke easy, our burden how In that far-away home, in our unending bliss, of thought. The thirty chapters are thirty The soul looking back o'er the way it has tro 1, short sketches, which were probably written as pleasant pastimes, at so many sittings of leisure and love. It is a fine picture of village life in New England. Living characters and scenes, no doubt, sat for many of its vivid delineations. Churchill is well painted. Alice Archer is an angel who will often flit on white wings through my vision. The character could not have been bettered by Shakespear himself. Lucy is natural. Sally is real as flesh and blood would be. Cecilia is a noble, joyous creature, leaping Minerva-like from the brain of a lofty genius, and acting the part of woman well. Kayanagh was a saint and a genius; a preacher for poets, impassioned as David, gentle as John; but not a preacher for the masses, who hunger for bread and meat of instruction, and not a pastor or shepherd who would think very often to look after his flock. The style is pure and beautiful and full of light; yet that light is the light of the clear, cold stars, and not the warm smiling sun. Where shall we meet next time? If you wish to preserve your teeth, always clean them thoroughly after you have eaten your last meal at night. above, Afflicted in mercy, in kindness and love. KINDNESS FROM THE AGED. Is there one being, stubborn as the rock to misfortune, whom kindness does not affect? It comes with a double grace and tenderness from the old; it seems in them the hoarded and long purified benevolence of years, as if it had survived and conquered the baseness and selfishness of the ordeal it had passed; as if the winds which had broken the form, had swept in vain across the heart, and the frosts which had chilled the blood and whitened the locks, has possessed no power over the affections. It is the voice of triumph of nature over art; it is the voice of the angel which is yet within us. Nor is this all; the tenderness of age is twice blessed-blessed in its trophies over the obduracy of encrusting and withering years, because it is tinged with the sanctity of the grave, and flatters us with the inviolacy and immortality of love. |