The skill of all that mighty City
To save one little life was vain;
One little thread from being broken,
One fatal word from being spoken;
Nay, his very mother's pain,
And the mighty love within her,
Could not give him health again.
So she knelt there still beside him,
She alone with strength to smile,
Promising that he should suffer
No more in a little while,
Murmuring tender song and story
Weary hours to beguile.
Suddenly an unseen Presence

Check'd those constant moaning cries, Still'd the little heart's quick fluttering, Raised those blue and wondering eyes, Fix'd on some mysterious vision,

With a startled sweet surprise.

For a radiant angel hover'd,
Smiling, o'er the little bed;

White his raiment, from his shoulders
Snowy dove-like pinions spread,
And a starlike light was shining

In a glory round his head.

While, with tender love, the angel,
Leaning o'er the little nest,

In his arms the sick child folding,
Laid him gently on his breast,
Sobs and wailings told the mother
That her darling was at rest.

So the angel, slowly rising,

Spread his wings; and, through the air, Bore the child, and while he held him To his heart with loving care, Placed a branch of crimson roses

Tenderly beside him there.

While the child, thus clinging, floated
Towards the mansions of the blest,
Gazing from his shining guardian

To the flowers upon his breast,
Thus the angel spake, still smiling
On the little heavenly guest:

"Know, dear little one, that heaven Does no earthly thing disdain : Man's poor joys find there an echo

Just as surely as his pain;
Love, on earth so feebly striving,

Lives divine in heaven again!
"Once in that great town below us,
In a poor and narrow street,
Dwelt a little sickly orphan;

Gentle aid, or pity sweet,
Never in life's rugged pathway
Guided his poor tottering feet.

"All the striving anxious forethought That should only come with age, Weigh'd upon his baby spirit,

Show'd him soon life's sternest page; Grim Want was his nurse, and Sorrow Was his only heritage.

"All too weak for childish pastimes,

Drearily the hours sped;

On his hands so small and trembling
Leaning his poor aching head,
Or, through dark and painful hours,
Lying sleepless on his bed.
"Dreaming strange and longing fancies
Of cool forests far away;

And of rosy, happy children,
Laughing merrily at play,

Coming home through green lanes, bearing
Trailing boughs of blooming May.
"Scarce a glimpse of azure heaven
Gleam'd above that narrow street,

And the sultry air of summer
(That you call so warm and sweet)
Fever'd the poor orphan, dwelling
In the crowded alley's heat.

"One bright day, with feeble footsteps,
Slowly forth he tried to crawl
Through the crowded City's pathways,
Till he reach'd a garden-wall;

Where 'mid princely halls and mansions
Stood the lordliest of all.

"There were trees with giant branches,
Velvet glades where shadows hide;
There were sparkling fountains glancing,
Flowers which, in luxuriant pride,
Even wafted breaths of perfume

To the child who stood outside.

"He against the gate of iron

Press'd his wan and wistful face,
Gazing with an awe-struck pleasure
At the glories of the place;
Never had his brightest day-dream

Shone with half such wondrous grace.

"You were playing in that garden, Throwing blossoms in the air, Laughing when the petals floated

Downwards on your golden hair; And the fond eyes watching o'er you, And the splendour spread before you, Told a house's hope was there.

"When your servants, tired of seeing Such a face of want and woe, Turning to the ragged orphan,

Gave him coin, and bade him go, Down his cheeks so thin and wasted, Bitter tears began to flow.

"But that look of childish sorrow On your tender child-heart fell, And you pluck'd the reddest roses

From the tree you loved so well,

Pass'd them through the stern cold grating, Gently bidding him 'Farewell!'

"Dazzled by the fragrant treasure

And the gentle voice he heard, In the poor forlorn boy's spirit,

Joy, the sleeping seraph, stirr'd; In his hand he took the flowers,

In his heart the loving word.

"So he crept to his poor garret ;

Poor no more, but rich and bright, For the holy dreams of childhoodLove, and Rest, and Hope, and LightFloated round the orphan's pillow

Through the starry summer night.

"Day dawn'd, yet the visions lasted;
All too weak to rise he lay;

Did he dream that none spake harshly-
All were strangely kind that day?
Surely then his treasured roses

Must have charm'd all ills away.

"And he smiled, though they were fading; One by one their leaves were shed; 'Such bright things could never perish,

They would bloom again,' he said. When the next day's sun had risen

66

Child and flowers both were dead.

"Know, dear little one! our Father
Will no gentle deed disdain;
Love on the cold earth beginning
Lives divine in heaven again,
While the angel hearts that beat there
Still all tender thoughts retain."

So the angel ceased, and gently

O'er his little burthen leant; While the child gazed from the shining, Loving eyes that o'er him bent, To the blooming roses by him, Wondering what that mystery meant. Thus the radiant angel answer'd,

And with tender meaning smiled: "Ere your childlike, loving spirit, Sin and the hard world defiled, God has given me leave to seek youI was once that little child!"

*

In the churchyard of that city
Rose a tomb of marble rare,
Deck'd, as soon as Spring awaken'd,
With her buds and blossoms fair-
And a humble grave beside it-
No one knew who rested there.

THAT second time they hunted me
From hill to plain, from shore to sea,
And Austria, hounding far and wide
Her blood-hounds through the country-side
Breathed hot and instant on my trace-
I made six days a hiding-place
Of that dry, green, old aqueduct

Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked
The fire-flies from the roof above,

Bright creeping through the moss they love.
How long it seems since Charles was lost!
Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed
The country in my very sight;
And when that peril ceased at night
The sky broke out in red dismay
With signal-fires; well, there I lay
Close covered o'er in my recess,
Up to the neck in ferns and cress,
Thinking on Metternich our friend,
And Charles's miserable end,
And much beside, two days; the third,
Hunger o'ercame me when I heard
The peasants from the village go
To work among the maize; you know,
With us in Lombardy, they bring
Provisions packed on mules, a string
With little bells that cheer their task,
And casks, and boughs on every cask
To keep the sun's heat from the wine;
These I let pass in jingling line,
And, close on them, dear noisy crew,
The peasants from the village, too;
For at the very rear would troop
Their wives and sisters in a group
To help, I knew; when these had passed,
I threw my glove to strike the last,
Taking the chance: she did not start,
Much less ery out, but stooped apart
One instant, rapidly glanced round,
And saw me beckon from the ground:
A wild bush grows and hides my crypt;
She picked my glove up while she stripped
A branch off, then rejoined the rest
With that; my glove lay in her breast:
Then I drew breath: they disappeared:
It was for Italy I feared.

An hour, and she returned alone
Exactly where my glove was thrown.
Meanwhile came many thoughts; on me
Rested the hopes of Italy;

I had devised a certain tale

Which, when 'twas told her, could not fail
Persuade a peasant of its truth ;

I meant to call a freak of youth

This hiding, and give hopes of pay,
And no temptation to betray.

But when I saw that woman's face,
Its calm simplicity of grace,

Our Italy's own attitude,

In which she walked thus far, and stood,
Planting each naked foot so firm,

To crush the snake and spare the worm-
At first sight of her eyes, I said,
"I am that man upon whose head
They fix the price, because I hate
The Austrians over us: the State
Will give you gold-oh, gold so much,
If you betray me to their clutch,
And be your death, for aught I know,
If once they find you saved their foe.
Now, you must bring me food and drink,
And also paper, pen and ink,

And carry safe what I shall write
To Padua, which you'll reach at night
Before the Duomo shuts; go in,
And wait till Tenebræ begin;
Walk to the Third Confessional,
Between the pillar and the wall,

And kneeling whisper, Whence comes peace?
Say it a second time, then cease;
And if the voice inside returns,
From Christ and Freedom; what concerns
The cause of peace ?-for answer, slip
My letter where you placed your lip;
Then come back happy, we have done
Our mother service-I, the son,
As you the daughter of our land!"

Three mornings more, she took her stand
In the same place, with the same eyes :
I was no surer of sunrise

Than of her coming: we conferred
Of her own prospects, and I heard
She had a lover-stout and tall,
She said then let her eyelids fall.
"He could do much "-as if some doubt
Entered her heart-then, passing out,

66

She could not speak for others, who Had other thoughts; herself she knew: And so she brought me drink and food. After four days, the scouts pursued Another path; at last arrived

The help my Paduan friends contrived
To furnish me: she brought the news.
For the first time I could not choose
But kiss her hand, and lay my own
Upon her head-"This faith was shown
To Italy, our mother; she
Uses my hand and blesses thee!"

She followed down to the sea-shore; I left and never saw her more.

How very long since I have thought Concerning-much less wished for-aught Beside the good of Italy,

For which I live and mean to die!

I never was in love; and since

Charles proved false, nothing could convince
My inmost heart I had a friend.
However, if I pleased to spend

Real wishes on myself-say, three-
I know at least what one should be;

I would grasp Metternich until

I felt his red wet throat distil

In blood thro' these two hands; and next,-
Nor much for that am I perplexed-
Charles, perjured traitor, for his part,
Should die slow of a broken heart
Under his new employers: last-

Ah, there, what should I wish? For fast
Do I grow old and out of strength.
If I resolved to seek at length
My father's house again, how scared
They all would look, and unprepared!
My brothers live in Austria's pay—
Disowned me long ago, men say;
And all my early mates who used

To praise me so-perhaps induced
More than one early step of mine-
Are turning wise; while some opine
"Freedom grows Licence," some suspect
"Haste breeds Delay," and recollect
They always said, such premature
Beginnings never could endure !
So, with a sullen "All's for best,"
The land seems settling to its rest.
I think, then, I should wish to stand
This evening in that dear, lost land,
Over the sea the thousand miles,
And know if yet that woman smiles
With the calm smile; some little farm
She lives in there, no doubt; what harm
If I sat on the door-side bench,
And, while her spindle made a trench
Fantastically in the dust,
Inquired of all her fortunes-just
Her children's ages and their names,
And what may be the husband's aims-
For each of them. I'd talk this out,
And sit there, for an hour about,
Then kiss her hand once more, and lay
Mine on her head, and go my way.

So much for idle wishing-how

It steals the time! To business now!

YOUNG fellow, a tobacco pedlar by trade, was on his way from Morristown, where he had dealt largely with the Deacon of the Shaker settlement, to the village of Parker's Falls, on Salmon River. He had a neat little cart, painted green, with a box of cigars depicted on each side-panel, and an Indian chief, holding a pipe and a golden tobacco-stalk, on the rear. The pedlar drove a smart little mare, and was a young man of excellent character, keen at a bargain, but none the worse liked by the Yankees, who, as I have heard them say, would rather be shaved with a sharp razor than a dull one. Especially was he beloved by the pretty girls along the Connecticut, whose favour he used to court by presents of the best smoking tobacco in his stock, knowing well that the country lasses of New England are generally great performers on pipes. Moreover, as will be seen in the course of my story, the pedlar was inquisi

tive, and something of a tattler, always itching to hear the news, and anxious to tell it again.

After an early breakfast at Morristown, the tobacco pedlar, whose name was Dominicus Pike, had travelled seven miles through a solitary piece of woods, without speaking a word to anybody but himself and his little grey mare. It being nearly seven o'clock, he was as eager to hold a morning gossip as a city shopkeeper to read the morning paper. An opportunity seemed at hand, when, after lighting a cigar with a sun-glass, he looked up, and perceived a man coming over the brow of the hill, at the foot of which the pedlar had stopped his green cart. Dominicus watched him as he descended, and noticed that he carried a bundle over his shoulder on the end of a stick, and travelled with a weary yet determined pace. He did not look as if he had started in the freshness of the morning, but had footed it all night, and meant to do the same all day.

"Good morning, mister," said Dominicus, when within speaking distance. "You go a pretty good jog. What's the latest news at Parker's Falls?"

The man pulled the broad brim of a grey hat over his eyes, and answered, rather sullenly, chat

he did not come from Parker's Falls, which, as being the limit of his own day's journey, the pedlar had naturally mentioned in his inquiry.

"Woll, then," rejoined Dominicus Pike, "let's have the latest news where you did come from. I'm not particular about Parker's Falls. Any place will answer."

Being thus importuned, the traveller-who was as ill-looking a fellow as one would desire to meet in a solitary piece of woods-appeared to hesitate a little, as if he was either searching his memory for news, or weighing the expediency of telling it. At last, mounting on the step of the cart, he whispered in the ear of Dominicus, though he might have shouted aloud, and no other mortal would have heard him.

"I do remember one little trifle of news," said he. "Old Mr. Higginbotham, of Kimballton, was murdered in his orchard, at cight o'clock last night, by an Irishman and a nigger. They strung him up to the branch of a St. Michael's pear-tree, where nobody would find him till the morning."

As soon as this horrible intelligence was communicated, the stranger betook himself to his journey again, with more speed than ever, not even turning his head when Dominicus invited him to smoke a Spanish cigar, and relate all the particulars. The pedlar whistled to his mare and went up the hill, pondering on the doleful fate of Mr. Higginbotham, whom he had known in the way of trade, having sold him many a bunch of long nines, and a great deal of pig-tail, lady's twist, and fig tobacco. He was rather astonished at the rapidity with which the news had spread. Kimballton was nearly sixty miles distant in a straight line; the murder had been perpetrated only at eight o'clock the preceding night; yet Dominicus had heard of it at seven in the morning, when, in all probability, poor Mr. Higginbotham's own family had but just discovered his corpse, hanging on the St. Michael's pear-tree. The stranger on foot must have worn seven-league boots to travel at such a rate.

"Ill news flies fast, they say," thought Dominicus Pike; "but this beats railroads. The fellow ought to be hired to go express with the President's Message."

The difficulty was solved by supposing that the narrator had made a mistake of one day in the date of the occurrence; so that our friend did not hesitate to introduce the story at every tavern and country store along the road, expending a whole bunch of Spanish wrappers among at least twenty horrified audiences. He found himself invariably the first bearer of the intelligence, and was so pestered with questions, that he could not avoid filling up the outline, till it became quite a respect able narrative. He met with one piece of corrobo

117

rative evidence. Mr. Higginbotham was a trader; and a former clerk of his, to whom Dominicus related the facts, testified that the old gentle. man was accustomed to return home through the orchard about nightfall, with the money and valuable papers of the store in his pocket. The clerk manifested but little grief at Mr. Higginbotham's catastrophe, hinting, what the pedlar had discovered in his own dealings with him, that he was a crusty old fellow, as close as a vice. His property would descend to a pretty niece, who was now keeping school at Kimballton. What with telling the news for the public good, and driving bargains for his own, Dominicus was so much delayed on the road, that he chose to put up at a tavern, about five miles short of Parker's Falls. After supper, lighting one of his prime cigars, he seated himself in the bar-room, and went through the story of the murder, which had grown so fast, that it took him half-an-hour to tell. There were as many as twenty people in the room, nineteen of whom received it all for gospel. But the twentieth was an elderly farmer, who had arrived on horseback a short time before, and was now seated in a corner, smoking his pipe. When the story was concluded, he rose up very deliberately, brought his chair right in front of Dominicus, and stared him full in the face, puffing out the vilest tobacco-smoke the pedlar had ever smelt.

"Will you make affidavit," demanded he, in the tone of a country justice taking an examination, "that old Squire Higginbotham, of Kimballton, was murdered in his orchard the night before last, and found hanging on his great pear-tree yesterday morning?"

"I tell the story as I heard it, mister," answered Dominicus, dropping his half-burnt cigar. "I don't say that I saw the thing done; so I can't take my oath that he was murdered exactly in that way."

"But I can take mine," said the farmer, "that if Squire Higginbotham was murdered night before last, I drank a glass of bitters with his ghost this morning. Being a neighbour of mine, he called me into his store as I was riding by, and treated me, and then asked me to do a little business for him on the road. He didn't seem to

know any more about his own murder than I did.” Why, then, it can't be a fact!" exclaimed Dominicus Pike.

"I guess he'd have mentioned, if it was," said the old farmer; and he removed his chair back to the corner, leaving Dominicus quite down in the mouth.

Here was a sad resurrection of old Mr. Higginbotham! The pedlar had no heart to mingle in the conversation any more, but comforted himself with a glass of gin and water, and went to bed,