« ForrigeFortsett »
rection to its subsequent course. But love alone, however much of moral beauty and poetry are in it, will never qualify her for a trust thus momentous-she must also possess much piety and wisdom-sterner virtues, it is true, but absolutely essential. Excessive love for THERE are many things in this world to excite our a delicate child in a mother proud and haughty, ruadmiration; yet amidst them all is there any thing to ined poor Byron; for "he was treated with an indulcompare with that law in nature which binds the moth-gence that, perhaps, went beyond the bounds of pruer to her offspring?
BY DANIEL COFFMAN.
My thoughts were directed to this subject by an engraving before me, which represents an infant cradled to sleep on its mother's arms. It is from a picture by Strange, and is allowed to be very expressive. Underneath it are the following lines, from the pen of Professor Wilson. They will, I am sure, find a response in
the bosom of every mother.
"Art thou a thing of mortal birth,
O, that my spirit's eye could see
A mother's love! There is scarcely any thing in nature so pure and disinterested. Constant, too, and untiring, it follows us through all our devious windings from the cradle to the grave. It is thought to be stronger than a father's love. If sickness or danger threaten, she is the foremost to render assistance-she enters more fully into all the little joys and sorrows of her child, and more willingly foregoes ease and rest for its sake. In her is emphatically "the ruling passion strong in death."
It is pleasing to behold, amidst the devastations of the fall, one feature, at least, unimpaired. Contrasting strongly with other of the affections, which unhappily are so greatly disordered, maternal love stands forth a redeeming principle, forming an easy and safe criterion by which to judge the depravity of poor human nature on the one hand, and on the other the superior excellencies of that nature, had it retained its estate of primeval purity.
PERHAPS one of the most indispensable and endearing qualifications of the feminine character is an amiable temper. Cold and callous must be the man who does not prize the meek and gentle spirit of a confiding woman. Her lips may not be sculptured in the perfect line of beauty, her eye may not roll in dazzling splendor, but if the native smile be ever ready to welcome, and the glance fraught with clinging devotion or shrinking sensibility, she must be prized far above gold or rubies. A few moments of enduring silence would often prevent years of discord and unhappiness; but the keen retort and waspish argument too often break the chain of affection, link by link, and leave the heart with no tie to hold it but a cold and frigid duty.
"HOPE not," says the celebrated Madame de Maintenon to the Princess of Savoy, on the eve of her marriage with the Duke of Burgundy, "for perfect happiness; there is no such thing on earth; though if it were, it would not be at court. Greatness is exposed station. Be neither vexed nor ashamed to depend on to afflictions often more severe than those of a private your husband. Let him be your dearest friend-your only confidant. Hope not for constant harmony in the marriage state. The best husbands and wives are those who bear occasionally from each other sallies of illhumor with patient mildness."
Not long since I stood trembling at the bed-side of one who was about to try the realities of the invisible world. Just before the awful moment arrived, when the glad spirit dropped its clay tenement, and took its upward flight, the energies of nature appeared to rally a little-she gave a searching glance about the room, and feebly exclaimed, "O, my family!" This was the last coherent expression she uttered, and it vibrated upon every nerve of my body. I think I hear it still.
It is thought to be, I said, stronger than a father's love. In the account we have of Joseph and Mary returning to Jerusalem, in quest of their lost son, it is worthy of remark, when they find him in the temple, the mother, true to nature and to fact, is the first to address him: "Son, why hast thou thus dealt with us?" It is the mother who fixes the destiny of the child-cap of maintenance lasts, my friends swarme in abunit is those lessons of instruction received at her knee, dance; but, in the winter of my neede, they leave me which, falling like dew upon the tender plant, give di- naked."
WARWICK, in his "Spare Minutes," thus describes common friendship: "When I see leaves drop from their trees in the beginning of autumn, just such, thinke I, is the friendship of the world. Whiles the
BY MISS BROWNING.
The New York Evangelist briefly notices the death of the Rev. Mr. Mitchell and his wife, missionaries of the American Board, which occurred on their way to their place of destination among the Nestorians of western Asia. Mr. Mitchell was a man of the highest promise and talents; and his wife, who was very young, is represented as combining all that is lovely in Their melancholy fall, so full of anguish to the bereaved friends, and so deeply lamented by all who are interest
ed in the advancement of Christ's cause, has called forth the
following tribute to the memory of the youthful sufferers.
YON valiant soldier of the cross! see now
Devotion kindle in his glowing eye; Determination stamps his youthful brow,
For Christ to live, and in his cause to die. A mother's sorrows and a sister's tears
Move not the noble purpose of his soul; He points to heaven to soothe and hush those fears, Which only faith in Jesus can control. "How blessings brighten as they take their flight," And tighter twine around his heart those cords That he must sever in the cause and might
Of the great King of kings and Lord of lords. The memory of a thousand scenes of joy
Crowd on the heart their bursting eloquenceA mother, nightly praying o'er her boy,
His hope, his blessing, and his strong defenseKind sisters, playmates of his childhood hours, And sharers of the joy of riper years, Are dearer now; and e'en the birds and flowers, Could he but weep, demand the flowing tears. But, O, a gentle one is by his side,
A very girl in tenderness and years;
She points them to a home beyond the skies,
We go to lead his chosen ones to God;
The raptured song of Christ's redeeming blood. Father, you'll miss me at the hour of prayer,
Or when in praise the heart goes up in song; You'll miss me ever from your tender care;
But time is short-you will not miss me long. And, mother, when your patient, watchful love, Would fondly yearn o'er one it sought to shield From sorrow, pain, and sin, then look above,
And to your Savior's care your daughter yield Farewell, dear parents-brothers, sisters, too;
Each book or friend, each favorite walk or tree, Will bring my image back again to you,
And waken olden, tender thoughts of me. My own bright sunny home, my childhood's pride, And must I never taste your joys again? The winter's evening, by the bright fire-side,
In other climes can I forget thee then?
Our pleasures those which love and duty bring;
Those noble ones, the chosen of the Lord,
Be broke-e'en angels still the lyre's cord, And eager gaze in pure and raptured joy.
With solemn awe each murmuring heart was stilled, As silent prayed that mother for her boy,
While chastened love her bursting bosom filled. Back from his brow the clustering hair she threw, And there a mother's parting kiss she leftWhispered, "To God, to thy young love be true,
Of all earth's chosen friends, save thee, bereft." Then rose a father's blessing in that hour,
"Great God, be thou their everlasting friend, Guide them aright by thine almighty power,
And let thy love their wandering steps attend." But now the spirit-stirring anthem rings,
To cheer those Gospel heralds on their way:
"Mother, farewell, I must not, cannot stay."
But there's a change within their childhood home.
Syria, fair land, most favored spot on earth,
Chosen by Him who crown'd thy verdant vales, As sinless man's first home, thou'st given birth
To kings and prophets, and thy hills and dales Have often echoed back the lofty praise
Of Judah's mighty God, from David's harp. Thy zephyrs whisper tales of other days
Of Babel's plaintive songs, of conflicts sharp With Canaan's ancient kings, and victories won. And e'en thy rugged mountains, cold and bare, Are hallowed by that high and holy One,
Who sought their solitude for midnight prayer. The spicy breezes, from each cedar grove,
And vineyard rare, waft us his dying breath, Whose quenchless, wondrous, agonizing love,
Purchased our ransom by a Savior's death. Syria, since, then, is all thy glory lost,
A guilty, darken'd cloud hangs o'er thee now; Thy ancient temple spoil'd, thy sons oppress'd,
And to a stranger tyrant made to bow. But yet I see a little cloud of light
Bursting on high for Israel's down-trod race; It larger grows with rays more glorious bright, And their redemption in its beams I trace.
Such were the thoughts of that devoted pair,
As side by side the vessel's deck they trod; Each sound was hushed, and gone the daylight glare, While the soft moon threw round her silvery flood. The scene was one of passing loveliness.
Like some good spirit from the world of life,
To cheer his heart mid joy or loneliness,
God's promises to Abram's seed she plead,
Of her own feelings, as they deepen now.
And shining stars look'd on them from above.
The solemn voice of that devoted man, In soul-subduing, soul-exalting prayer,
They gave themselves entire to God again. Before them lay the fair and promised land,
And 'mongst its rocky hills, their destined sphere But neither rocky hills nor barren sands
Depress'd their hearts, or caused the starting tear. F'en now they hear the deep, heart-rending cry
Of millions, perishing for heavenly foodO, if they had but angel's wings to fly,
To bear the blessed manna sent from God!
'Twas autumn twilight: the rich sunset sky Spread o'er a scene of lonely barren sand; Nor aught is seen to entertain the eye,
Save one lone tent, in this deserted land. Why there alone? beside that desert spring,
O'er which not e'en a pine its shadows threwMayhap a wandering Arab on the wing,
With booty, plundered from the pilgrim JewBold, fearless, tameless tribe, whose chosen home Is in the wilderness, or mountain land, Whose freedom is the desert plain to roam
O, when will thy redemption be at hand? And who can tell but this may be the spot
Where banish'd Ishmael's fainting parent wept; Then turn'd unto the fount with blessings fraught,
And promises which God has faithful kept.
Is not of Arab, feasting on his spoils;
With bitter grief, and bound with bleeding coils. O, who can tell the agony of woe
To woman's heart, when all its hopes so bright, Its treasured love, are crushed beneath the blow Which hides their earthly object from her sight! And such, indeed, was the devotion pure
Of that fair girl, exiled from early home, And every joy that can the heart allure,
With one she lov'd, in stranger lands to roam. Since then, not one brief year has coursed its round, And with their mountain home almost in sight, Each glittering hope is trampled to the ground;
For death is there, with his resistless might. There on a lowly couch the sufferer lies,
That holy man, a youthful martyr now, And faith relights the brighten'd hopes that rise
To chase the gathering shadows from his brow. His cold and dying hands are clasp'd in hers,
His icy cheek is pillow'd on her breast. Could she but warm them with her scalding tears,
The desert, more than Eden bower, were blest. "Great God," she cried, "in mercy spare him now,
O, leave me not alone in this dread hour;" Then press'd such burning kisses on his brow,
As are unknown except to love's despair. She drew him closer to her throbbing heart,
And vainly strove to warm his life anewRaised her clasp'd hands to heaven, "Lord, must we part?
Then give him grace to die, and triumph too." Her prayer was answered, and his glowing eye
Told of the holy joy that filled his breast: "Mary, dear Mary, I could calmly die,
But let her know my sky in death was clear. God shield thee, wife, for I am going now;
Earth fades away, but heaven is full in sight." One look of love he gave, and murmur'd low
His last farewell; then sped to realms of light That spirit pure-too pure on earth to stay.
Close to her breast the almost frantic wife Still pressed in agony the soulless clay,
Seeking in vain to call it back to life"O, breathe again, my husband, speak once more, Call me thine own, and bid me die for thee. 'Tis all in vain. Great God in mercy hear
To thee, and thee alone, for help I flee;" Then by his side she sank in agony of prayer.
As the lost sailor, 'mid the howling storm
And midnight darkness, sees the morning star Rise in the east, and instant all is calm;
So when her soul, amid its deep despair, Look'd up to Christ, her only refuge now,
He gently soothed and hushed its sigh and care, And bade her heart in sweet submission bow.
She calmly wiped the dampness from his brow, And printed on his lips a last fond kiss:
"Yes, dearest, sainted one, thou'st left me now, But soon I'll join thee in the realms of bliss."
No wonder that those rude and mountain men Were filled with pity for that lonely child
More quick to do her bidding now, than when, For promised gold, along the way they toiled.
She saw that their stern hearts could deeply feelThen pointed to her husband's lifeless form;
Their moisten'd eyes quick answer'd her appeal,
And told her she was safe from every harm.
That was the hour that woman's soul most tries, (And who can feel its thrilling horrors may—
To attempt the scene in words my pen denies;) And in that hour she knew that she must die. Then thoughts of home came rushing thro' her mind, A father, watching o'er her suffering bed
A sister, in her warm affections twined: "O, were they here to bathe my burning head!
And, mother, wert thou here to soothe me now, Thy love would chase away my spirit's griefWould still the throbbing of my aching brow, And to my dying hour bring sweet relief."
She linger'd there in pain a few brief daysNo gentler nurse than the attending Koords,
Who guarded them thro' all their desert ways, And, save their pitying looks, no soothing words. Sometime her thoughts in wild delirium roam, To happy scenes that in her memory live—
To youthful friends around her childhood homeVain, fleeting fancies, yet they pleasure give.
And then, in joy too rapturous to remain, Her husband labors in Nestoria's land
She's by his side, and hears his voice again; Then wakes, to die, there in the desert sand.
They buried her beside his lowly grave, Bore to her weeping friends the tidings drear, A penciled line that she in dying gave, And bade them carry back-memento dear.
Who'll answer now the deep, heart-rending cry,
Borne on each breeze, from far Nestoria's land? Shall it unheeded pass-the famished die?
And we dare meet them, curs'd at Christ's left hand? And can we hear them ask the way of life,
Then weigh the anguish of a soul that's lost,
By all thy blessings, rich, and high, and rare-
Art thou not call'd upon to hasten there,
That Israel's ransom'd seed may hasten home?
To Christ? Come, haste, and offer at his shrine; Give what thy soul most loves-an offering;
"Tis all thou canst return for love divine.
If thou wilt bear the cross, with all its shame, Eternal life and Christ himself are thine;
ily, had wandered by night from his unattended bed to the river, and there was drowned, having been discovered too late for assistance.
"Choose all our changes, Lord."
The widow was now on her way from New Orleans to Bayou Sara, on the melancholy errand of seeing the spot, and learning the particulars of her husband's
I WAS once on board a steamboat where there occurred a little adventure, which fixed, and, as it were, pointed the text which I have placed as a motto, indel-death-hoping, too, in her destitute condition, to save ibly in my mind. There was, amongst the passengers, whatever little effects he might have died possessed of. a young female with her two infant children, who had She had taken her passage in the boat, as I have said, recently become a widow. Her bereavement, as I as deck passenger; but the captain, a benevolent man, learned, had happened in a very sudden and affecting when he ascertained the particulars of her case, told manner. The casualty of an instant had left her her she should come free of charge, and also, when a friendless and forlorn, in a country remote from her vacancy occurred that day, by the landing of some labirth-place, and without the common solace of kindred dies at a town on the river, he removed her and her or even of neighborhood. She was the wife of an em- children into the vacant state-room. The water was igrant, but a few months in our country, and but im-in a very low stage, and it took the unusual time of perfectly acquainted with its customs and usages. She five days from the city to Bayou Sara. was a Scotch woman, the daughter of a farmer, and, as I found, quite an extraordinary character; and though her life had been simple, she had received a very good education, and whilst she knew very little of the world, was possessed of an intuitive good sense, which greatly supplied the deficiency. Above all, she was strongly grounded in religion. I saw her in a situation where she was sorely tried. I first saw her as I looked over the guard of the boat into the lower deck; for in that place she had taken her passage. And as she sat apart with children, I was struck with her superior look to those about her. I became interested to || observe her closely, and subsequently, from conversation, I gathered her little story. It seems her young husband, desiring a better start in life than his patrimony afforded him, and having also met with some hindrances of property, had decided to cross the ocean, and seek, in America, the land of hope, a broader field of enterprise. Alas! he sought a grave; and many a time in his brief career, after he reached the land, he might have exclaimed with Hassan
The day after the widow's installment in the ladies' cabin, there arrived a party from a plantation on the coast, consisting of a gentleman and his wife, an infant of two years and his nurse, and one or two other attendants. Their passage had been bespoken on the downward trip of the boat, and a state-room held in reserve for them. It so happened that when the lady of the plantation first entered the cabin, seeing the sun full upon her apartment, she declared herself dissatisfied, saying it was out of the question that her infant should lie in a room exposed to the sun, or on that side of the boat where the sun came! And she looked about, as we may suppose she had been accustomed to do at home, to espy whom she might dislodge; and seeing the lowly looks and humble arrangements of the widow on the opposite side, she asserted at once that she believed that that was the room which had been selected for her! The widow replied, "Madam, I don't know, the captain put me in this apartment." "O, the captain has made a mistake," insisted the lady, "I spoke first for the room, of course, as I engaged it on the downward trip; besides, my little boy is not well, and can't stand the sun." Some one suggested to the widow that the subject had better be referred to the captain. But she, feeling probably that she would not, however innocently, embarrass him with his passengers, said, with dignity and gentleness, in low but measured voice, "I will let the lady have my room, although, in a like case, I would not take hers;" adding, "If her babe is sick, she is welcome to it; for mine, thank God, are well." The rooms, she knew, were equally good; yet she felt the indignity of being dis
"Sad was the hour and luckless was the day, When first from Shiraz' walls I bent my way." Alas! for him there was no return. He landed in New Orleans at an unsuitable season of the year to get acclimated. The weather was hot and depressing. He was amongst strangers, anxious, and short of money, and unacquainted with the resources of the country. It seems he had come up the river in search of a situation as overseer of a plantation, leaving his family in the city until he should ascertain a home for them. Some business he found, though not what he sought; for he had been objected to as appearing above the sit-placed at the will of another. The poor creature was uation of overseer, and probably insufficient to its du- full of grief, and bewildered with anxieties; and the ties, as well as averse, by national feeling, to its pecu- unfriendliness of this assault wounded and oppressed liar offices. But he had obtained some business, and her. She made ready to remove her things. Her now wrote a letter to his wife to come to him, inclosing scanty packages gave place to the rich and massive travthe necessary funds for her expenses. But the faith-eling apparatus of the lady. What a contrast the less messenger, a heartless villain, abstracted the two presented, in all respects, of condition and of charmoney, and destroyed the letter, and the first news the acter! unfortunate woman received was, that her husband was dead! He had been seized with the fever of the country, and in his delirium and his anxiety to see his fam
When the lady saw her busying herself to remove, she insisted that her servant should lift the things for her, "since," said she, in her petulant self-complacency,