MY LAST WALK WITH THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. I can't say just how many walks she and I had taken together before this one. I found the effect of going out every morning was decidedly favorable on her health. Two pleasing dimples, the places for which were just marked when she came, played, shadowy, in her freshening cheeks when she smiled and nodded good-morning to me from the school-house steps. *** The schoolmistress had tried life. Once in a while one meets with a single soul greater than all the living pageant that passes before it. As the pale astronomer sits in his study with sunken eyes and thin fingers, and weighs Uranus or Neptune as in a balance, so there are meek, slight women who have weighed all which this planetary life can offer, and hold it like a bauble in the palm of their slender hands. This was one of them. Fortune had left her, sorrow had baptized her; the routine of labor and the loneliness of almost friendless city-life were before her. Yet, as I looked upon her tranquil face, gradually regaining a cheerfulness which was often sprightly, as she became interested in the various matters we talked about and places we visited, I saw that eye and lip and every shifting lineament were made for love,unconscious of their sweet office as yet, and meeting the cold aspect of Duty with the natural graces which were meant for the reward of nothing less than the Great Passion. It was on the Common that we were walking. The mall, or boulevard of our Common, you know, has various branches leading from it in different directions. One of these runs downward from opposite Joy Street southward across the whole length of the Common to Boylston Street. We called it the long path, and were fond of it. I felt very weak indeed (though of a tolerably robust habit) as we came opposite the head of this path on that morning. I think I tried to speak twice without making myself distinctly audible. At last I got out the question,-Will you take the long path with me? Certainly, said the schoolmistress,-with much pleasure. Think,—I said,—before you answer: if you take the long path with me now, I shall interpret it that we are to part no more! The schoolmistress stepped back with a sudden movement, as if an arrow had struck her. One of the long granite blocks used as seats was hard by,—the one you may still see close by the Gingko-tree. Pray, sit down, -I said. No, no, she answered, softly,-I will walk the long path with you! The old gentleman who sits opposite met us walking, arm in arm, about the middle of the long path, and said, very charmingly, "Good-morning, my dears!" ALBERT PIKE. ALBERT PIKE was born in Boston, December 29, 1809. At the age of sixteen, he was admitted to Harvard College, but, not being able to meet its expenses, he became an assistant teacher in a grammar-school at Newburyport, and at the end of the year its principal. In 1831 he was seized with a spirit of adventure, and started in his travels to the West and South, going through New York, Ohio, Kentucky, Tennessee, to St. Louis,-thence to Santa Fe, where he was engaged a year in merchandise, and thence along the Red River to Little Rock. Here a trifling circumstance caused him to make that place his home; for, being out of funds, he wrote some pieces of poetry for a newspaper printed there, with which the editor was so much pleased that he invited him to become his partner. The proposition was gladly accepted, and here commenced a new era of his life. The "Arkansas Advocate" was edited by him to the close of the year 1834, when it became his property. Soon after this he studied law, was admitted to the bar, sold his printing-establishment, and devoted himself to his profession. Mr. Pike has published a volume entitled Prose Sketches and Poems. Among the latter is a beautiful and spirited piece, for which he deserves to be remembered, entitled TO THE MOCKING-BIRD. Thou glorious mocker of the world! I hear And floods the heart. Over the sphered tombs No light from history's starlike page illumes Where the old sighs, the young turns gray and grieves, And with thy soul of music thou dost win Their heart to harmony,- -no jar intrudes Is one so dear as thee to these old solitudes? Ha! what a burst was that! the Eolian strain Of glossy music under echoing trees, Over a ringing lake; it wraps the soul With a bright harmony of happiness,- Their waves of brilliant flame.-till we become, I have to struggle with the tumbling sea Into death's darkness. Thou wilt sing and soar Through the thick woods and shadow-checker'd glades, The brilliance of thy heart,-but I must wear, There is a voice sweeter than thine, sweet bird, The darkness of existence to illume! Then why complain? When death shall cast his blight Beneath these trees,-and from thy swelling breast, ANNA PEYRE DINNIES. ANNA PEYRE DINNIES is the daughter of Judge Shackelford, of Georgetown, South Carolina. When a child, her father removed to Charleston, where she was educated. For many years she wrote poetry for various magazines, under the signature of Moina. In 1830, she was married to Mr. John C. Dinnies, of St. Louis, Missouri, where she resided for many years. In 1845, her husband removed to New Orleans, where she now lives. In 1846, she published a richly-illustrated volume, entitled The Floral Year. Her pieces celebrating the domestic affections are marked by unusual grace and tenderness. THE WIFE. "She flung her white arm round him-Thou art all I could have stemm'd misfortune's tide, I could have smiled on every blow I could I think I could-have brook'd, For then I should at least have felt To win thee back, and, whilst thou dwelt But thus to see, from day to day, Thy brightening eye and cheek, And watch thy life-sands waste away Unnumber'd, slowly, meek; To meet thy smiles of tenderness, And catch the feeble tone Of kindness, ever breathed to bless, To mark thy strength each hour decay, It must not be; we may not part: Thou strange, unbidden guest! from whence Thus early hast thou come? And wherefore? Rude intruder, hence! And seek some fitter home! These rich young locks are all too dear,- Go! take thy sober aspect where Or find some furrow'd brow, which Care Thou wilt not go? Then answer me, Beside thyself appear, And through these bright and clustering curls Thou art a moralist? ah, well! And comest from Wisdom's land, Well! well! I understand:- And now, as I observe thee nearer, She says thou art a herald, sent And 'midst their wild luxuriance taught To show thyself, and waken thought. That thought, which to the dreamer preaches A lesson stern as true, That all things pass away, and teaches And thou wert sent to rouse anew This thought, whene'er thou meet'st the view. And comes there not a whispering sound, A low, faint, murmuring breath, Like Echoes in their death? "Time onward sweeps, youth flies, prepare❞— WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK, 1810-1841. WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK' was born in Otisco, Onondaga County, New York, in the year 1810. His father was an intelligent farmer, and early saw the indications of that poetic talent which manifested itself in many beautiful effusions while he was yet a youth. After completing his scholastic course, when about twenty years of age, he repaired to Philadelphia, where his reputation as a poet had already preceded him, and, under the auspices of his friend, the Rev. Ezra Stiles Ely, D.D., he commenced a weekly miscellany, similar in its design and character to the "Mirror" of New York. He soon found, however, that the 1 His twin-brother, Lewis Gaylord Clark, is the editor of the "Knickerbocker Magazine," to the popularity of which he has largely contributed by his lively and instructive monthly lucubrations,-"The Editor's Table," and "Gossip with Readers and Correspondents." |