them. But the waterfall itself! Looking down you see it, far, far down, how beautiful! like a misty, silvery veil, and when the sun happens to glance into the rocky cavern, as we saw it to-day, what a revelation of beauty is made! This must be Undine's shrine. It is near this fall, on the summit of a neighboring rock, that the tree stands for which my eyes conceived such a friendship last winter; already I have made my pilgrimage thitherward, and I vowed a vow, and said a prayer there, of which my life, not my words, shall be a witness for you. In the woods my little companion and I gathered many flowers; and, arrived at the fall, we sat down there to rest. For a long time we remained there seated in silence. At last, after playing with the lilies and violets until she wearied of them as I imagined, 'Bel threw them into my hands, and asked me, with that confidence with which childhood alone proposes these deep questions-"Aunty Ag, who made those flowers?" Oh Lina!—I who knew, and yet who knew not, turned away from the little questioner. I hid my face-how startlingly from such a questioner comes a word like this! Was it cowardice, my friend? I know not what would have tempted me to become her companion that day, had I guessed the query with which the lesson would open. I did not answer: presently she came up closer to me, and laid her little hands upon my head, and stooping, that she might look into my covered face, she said again, "Won't you tell me who made the flowers?" (( God, my child," I answered. Immediately she turned away from me, and began to gather up again the blossoms which had fallen in the grass. I looked upon her I could not see her face, it was hidden in the fair hair that fell in confusion about it. But I needed not to look into her eyes that I might be convinced of what I sincerely believe at this moment. The soul of the child had awakened, or it had just been born into this world's life! in that hour it had aroused to a first consciousness of itself in its new habitation. For a long time we sat there thus quietly together. My thoughts were wandering away into the future. I had forgotten all around me, and even that of which I had just spoken. But the child had not forgotten, for presently she said, and in a way that convinced me that one thought had prevailed during these minutes in her mind-" Who did you say God is?" Alas, the question of questions had arisen in her mind, and she was looking to me for a soVOL. II.-18 lution! What grace had I to answer her? and yet I dared not keep silence now-"You do not see him," I said with hesitation, praying meanwhile, as I never prayed before, that if to her the words should have no significance, she might at least be made to understand their spirit. "You do not see him, 'Bel, but he is every where. He made you and me; He made every thing in the world. He is more beautiful than the flowers, or He could not have made them so beautiful; He is stronger than these great mountains and the world, or He could not have made them. But we are a little blind, and so we cannot see him yet, but after a time He will help us, and then we shall see." "What made the flowers we picked wilt so yesterday? Will these wilt?" You see, Lina, how we were entered into the depths of mystery at once. I, alas! as much a child as she in the knowledge of such things, set over her to teach her of them! "Yes, in a day or two," I said, 66 they will wilt and die--and so shall we, and then"-Thus was all said that I could say. I believe that was an hour of no ordinary significance to either of us. With sorrow, and half with a rebellious indignation, I threw upon her life the burden of this knowledge, for, unconscious to it as she may at present remain, it must return to her, it will inevitably return to her again and again, as long as she shall live-and who can tell with what aggravated force these truths shall appeal to her? It makes me shudder to think of it. "Will I wilt, and you wilt, and mamma, and all-and be thrown away?" I had no need to answer the question, for it was barely asked when 'Bel sprang away from me and ran off laughing in the wood-path, coming back the instant after hand in hand with Pastor Islington! I thought it most fortunate, most pleasant; I think so still. He sat down with us by the waterfall. We spoke of innumerable things; the retirement of the place, the beauty of the day, led us to utter our thoughts from the depths of our hearts, I believe. Old memories came of their own accord, and we were not afraid to reveal them to each other; there was no danger that either of us would be guilty of misunderstanding while we spoke thus. Poor Miss Renwick! By degrees the conversation, as it commonly does, fell into his hands, and admirably he cared for it. He did what he does rarely-talked much of himself. He told me of the struggles he had passed through in his youth-his early love of study, and how that love was developed, fostered, and gratified, by the devotion and labor of his mother-of the vacillations of his youth, the disappointments he occasioned her―of the steadying influence exercised by Renwick upon his mind. He spoke of the chastenings his early ambitious aspirations had received, of his first attempts to walk by faith rather than by human sight. How he had gone wrong, and lost his way, and stumbled, but yet had persevered in his striving, the path day by day growing clearer, and the light of Faith brighter, until now he relied upon it with perfect trust, well assured that the light would never fail, that it would illuminate even the shadow of death. He spoke of affliction, not lightly, but as one who had lived with it, and known it well; as one who recognized it as the agent of the Refiner and Purifier of souls. He spoke of the Vanquisher of Grief-of Hope's manifold resurrections. He spoke of earth, of the changes which go on so steadily within it, sending forth to the surface their evidence; and of the counterpart these changes have in Human Nature. How we in our mortal lives do seem a concentration of the truths which a universe unfolds; of the mind he spoke as an epitome of the glory of the natural world-of its power, its majesty, its beauty. As these forests, which in time will give way to others of totally different growth, he said, our present trains of thoughts, emotions, and hopes, will give place in a future state, doubtless, to others just as natural, but of a higher order. The mind's spontaneity he spoke of, regarding it as having a prefiguration in the spontaneity of earth, as destined to give hereafter more wonderful evidence of itself, and for Him who created and endowed it, than the earth can do; and much he argued from this fact, that, thrown up from no matter what depth, earth, exposed to the sun and air, will show how thoroughly it is alive by the verdure that at once overspreads its surface. He spoke of human hopes, how they "all do fade as the leaf" and contrasted with these the Hope that is Unchanging, because it is the gift of the Changeless. He spoke of Friendship-of its high offices and its ennobling influences-of the foolish limitations put upon it: he called me his friend ;-oh that Miss Renwick had heard him speaking thus! and oh that she had seen the prophesied pastoress listening thus! Then he began to talk of Helen McLeod; and I saw a deeper interest was aroused in him by the reference; and it was speaking of her that we returned home together. I believe this, that a great human hope has again found lodgment in the pastor's breast; and yet I am as certain that he has determined that it shall at no time disturb the deep peace which the love of God has given his soul. His trials and disappointments hitherto have sanctified him. My friend! my friend! would that I could say this of myself; but my "pride," and my "passion," what words are these you have recorded against me, and how significant they are! To him the Tree of Thorns has proved the Tree of Life; when shall I be able to say as much? My heart is like the street of a ruined subterranean citythe marks of the chariot wheels are there, and, unless an earthquake utterly destroy the city, a convulsion upheave the foundation, I know not how the traces of the triumphal procession of my pride will be removed. You refer me to the story of the Spartan boy, and the stolen fox-and demand that I shall discern the moral, and make the application! You profess, beside, to discern very clearly that I am disgusted with this north land, that my heart aches for the southern sunshine. You have strangely misjudged me, Lina. I am going to work a miracle-and to finish my book-for... for, it is fairly begun! and the pastor is, in very truth, my hero! You should have seen Miss Renwick's consternation and befogment when 'Bel told her of our long chatting in the woods; but I believe she is now fairly silenced, and no more is to be apprehended from her incipiently-developed love for seeing alf things go on swimmingly in the matchmaking way. Still she will not believe that a predestined spinster appears before her in the person of Flora's sister; as regards herself, evidently she believes this particular phase of life to be the very height of felicity; but she would fain exclude all others, me especially, from a like fate. Poor, dear, old soul ! Thine, VI. Oh, Lina, George is dying! A. B. He came to the village to lecture-it was during a week of last month when I was too ill to leave my bed. He came to lecture before a newly-formed association, and the lecture is delivered; and that is all-his race is run-he will die! I did not hear his name mentioned-I knew nothing about it, until the day when I was able to leave my bed, Miss Renwick, whom during this sickness I learned to love from my heart, poor dear old fuss! said to me, "We have another invalid in the house, Mr. Wayland, an old friend of brother Washington." I was startled when I heard the name; but I was very certain that it could not be to him whom I knew by that name that she referred. This gentleman, she said, came up from Cambridge to lecture; on his way here he contracted a violent cold, and fever, and now was very ill. Renwick had brought him home with him on the lecture night, and here he had remained ever since. It is now several days since I learned this; and I have not seen him yet. But I know that George Wayland is his name. Flora has told me about him-oh, so much! but I have not yet the strength to go to him. Yet I must go. My place is there--what a place for a reconciliation! To-morrow, yes, to-morrow I will go down and compel myself to look upon him-to speak with him, and remain with him. But to-day I cannot do it. It is not probable that I shall write you again after that. I had resigned myself to perpetual solitude of soul and heart. I had said I was resigned to it. Alas, how I deceived myself! Yet what hope could have lingered in my heart? Hope, is that the word? Dying! is it not incredible? George Wayland dying! We have known him so long-have seen him so conspicuous in manly strength and beauty, absorbing in himself so much of dignity and pride that other men seemed robbed of it, as contrasted with him and his gifts! He will remain to you for ever this image; but I must see him otherwise; I must watch, and know, and see the life fading, and the light dying. You and I have heard him dream; he could dream grandly. And he would have realized every vision. They were prophecies, not visions, with him. If I could but forget our parting!—His plans were laid on a broad foundation; all he took for granted was-life! the rest was the fruitage of the labor on which he had determined. This man is dying! The silence that reigns in the house is intolerable—he is dying! Lina, no matter what the world may tell you to the contrary, never, never believe that love can be outlived, or outgrown, or forgotten. I dare not fairly think the thoughts that crowd upon me; my grief will not blind me, but I believe it will kill me; I have not said to you I hope it will. God knows, and he only, how all will eventuate; but there is a tempest in the air, and a hurricane at hand. Shall I stand up and perish in the embrace of this simoom? Do you remember Bryant's Hymn to Death? and the concluding lines? He celebrates the triumphs and the glory of the unconquered King, but his song breaks into the tearfullest wail at last, for before him lies the form of one most dear to him, vanquished by the Destroyer, and the poem closes with a groan. You know that it has been my wish to stand beside some death-bed; that I have longed to watch the departure of some spirit from its clay. I have the opportunity at last! Think you these eyes will bear to gaze with his down into the mysterious depths of the Dark Valley, striving to penetrate, as his will, beyond, where the brightness is? Oh thou great Heaven, that it should come to this! Why may we not die at will? VIL The summer is nearly ended. How long it is since I have written to you, Lina! Often I have attempted to do it, but words have failed me; and now what shall I say? Has your heart, has your mind been in mourning? Throw off the gloomy garments; put you on the most glorious apparelling! Be joyful and glad; for he that was dead is alive again! I am coming back to you; and I shall bring a friend with me. For this northland winter which is at hand, will never do for him. He is a sort of Calvin Edson just now, though he denies it; and the storm wind would cause him to vanish as though he were a wraith-which he was near to being. You are to help me in my care of him, for you are to join us on our way to Havana. I hear at this moment your consenting, joyous YEA. Miss Renwick awakens to the appreciation of some astounding facts, viz., that the pastor will doubtless take unto himself a wife; for at this moment a letter lies upon my table from Helen McLeod in Boston; she has her sight again! This is the pastor's work, and mine (with a little aid from the hand of a Boston oculist)! and moreover, that the pastor will make me a wife-not his own, but another man's-even the said "Calvin's!" Why am I up here among these mountains? what have I to do with these dear people around me? how came I here? what have I accomplished? How absurd it all seems! Yet my book is written! and Wayland has read it-and-saysit-shall-be-published! So I suppose we had the quarrel, and Wayland wandered away hither, and every thing else happened as it did, that my book might be written! All you have now to do, therefore, is to hearken, and pay good heed to the speech of the critics. It must be a wonder-book that needed so much preparation of mind and heart! Indeed-yes: I think so. And I have stood, besides, in the very shadow of death, and Renwick says, he says, Lina, that if I had not been here, nothing is more certain than that our brother would have gone the way of all life! That the disease ran its course, and did not destroy, because a sovereign elixir was found in Flora's words when she preceded me into Wayland's chamber, and said, "Agnes is here." Do you believe this? If it be true. But whether all that has occurred, occurred that a life might be saved, or, that two lives might be saved, in a higher sense, judge then. I am aware of it now; we needed both to learn the very lessons we have learned. Well, we shall not forget the text, and the comment, I trust. Renwick says, looking at me, but clasping Flora in his great, strong arms, "What shall we do without you, Aunt Ag?"— He, and they all, will do very well without me, I fancy, with such a measureless content does he regard his little wife, our darling, and every body's darling, Flora; and so happy are they all in each other. I always shall think of this household as of a heaven upon earth. Do you know what makes it heavenly? a very little word, which is however God's greatest name-and man's name, in his "best estate." Why have I come up here? Do you ask it still? From time immemorial the great, strange, and blessed works, have been wrought among the mountains. Never ask to what end, Lina. Have I not here been told of the Tree of Life ; have I not taken the Thorn Branch in my hand, and for ever renounced the golden fruit which is ashes to the taste? Away with the old specious dreams, and sophisms, the fancies, and follies: blessed, blessed is our life, and, as another has said, it is of itself a sacrament. Joyfully let us partake thereof. Oh I know, you say, it is an easy thing for the happy to give thanks. Do not even thus rebuke me. I dare not recall the last letter that I wrote you; nor the thought with which it was written. I can only say, God is infinite in mercy. I thought when I wrote those few words that if I ever wrote you again it would be to tell you how he died, and where we had buried him. I will be mindful of what I know to be your wish, and tell you of the last momentous watch we kept together-Renwick and I. The doctor had told me that he anticipated a change in his patient at midnight, and that its result would be final; and, he said, that unless I could be prepared for any fate, I must not remain in the sick room with him. You would never have You would never have guessed that my friend was at the point of death had you seen me after he communicated this counsel, that night. No stoic could have betrayed a colder indifferAt ten the house was still as the grave. Only in the kitchen were other Jonathan members of the family astir. and Mary, they alone of the household, beside Renwick and I, kept the watch. ence. At eleven o'clock George said to me, in a voice so strong that it startled and alarmed me, CC Agnes, read something for me." I looked at Renwick, he bowed his head in token that I was to comply. I had in my pocket a little book-Jean Paul's "BEST HOURS "-I drew nearer to him, and read, "Canst thou forget, in the dark hour, that there have been mighty men amongst us, and that thou art following after them? Raise thyself like the spirits which stood upon their mountains, having the storm of life only about and never above them. Call back to thee the kingly race of sages and of poets, who have inspirited and enlightened nation after nation." "Is there not a more elevating thought than this? a name greater than any other known among men, that you might name?" said Renwick in mild reproof, unconsciously uttering the very thought Jean Paul had expressed, and I read the next passage-"Remember Jesus Christ, in the dark hour-remember him who also passed through life-remember that soft Moon of the Infinite Sun, given to enlighten the night of the world. Let life be hallowed to thee, and death also, for he shared both of them with thee. May his calm and lofty form look down on thee in the last darkness, and show thee his Father." I closed the book here, Renwick advancing took my place, I stood back, a solitary in the gloom, while he watched narrowly every symptom-it was the watch of an eye clear to discern the awful conflict going on. How was it with me during that suspense while I stood alone, waiting for the knowledge which was to set the seal to my own fate as well as his? I had comforted myself in our estrangement with high thoughts of Friendship-of Labor. And doubtless had we not met again I should-nay, I should never have forgotten, but I would have become as insensible as I fancied that I was already. Had I foreseen how I could, how I should wait, and watch, and petition for that life ! They sin who tell us love can die”—and yet I can reconcile this belief with the knowledge to which I have attained as to how it is "inwardly" with Helen McLeod! A solitary, a homeless, friendless orphan; this I felt myself to be while I waited and watched. At last, at last Renwick turned from the bedside-looked at me-and his voice faltered when he said, "Go now and thank God for his mercy; Agnes, our friend will live!” The happy pastor has been up here with his bride to day, and Salathiel was with them-but the poor old man had less of the infernal in his look, and more of the picturesque, than I have seen before. I believe, however, that my blindness has been only less profound than Helen's, since I came into this region; but if I was blind I do now see, as does also Helen, the village partners-the happy wife of Is lington. Very, very beautiful is sheyou meet her glance and feel that an angel has blest you. Flora believes that sorrow has indeed made of the bride an angel. So do we all believe. They came up here for a purpose today-when that purpose was accomplished, I said to Helen, "You are richer than when I came ; I am glad to know that not a soul needs me now, that I am going." But what their answer was I shall not say. Life! Life! let us drink freely and largely of the grand libation! Oh then, Thorn-crowned, we thank thee for the cup. And now, they call me by another name than Agnes Bond-oh Lina! THE LOVERS. WATCH their mien of trembling joy, He is a rosy village boy, And she a graceful village maiden. He shielded her when snowflakes fell, Have lips yet given voice to heart? The steps resistless Love draws nearer. Their world is changed; historic names For her are shrunk to merest zero; And poet-loves and novel-fames Are poor beside the living hero. For him-all sweets of earth and air, The softest breath of soft May morning, Too coarse, too harsh, too common are To match that girlish beauty's dawning. The walk upon enchanted ground; The school, the street, are lands elysian; A song of spheres is every sound; Each glance a beatific vision. O Teacher, sage! in vain you pore O'er black-boards wide, with science laden; The blindfold boy lends deeper lore To village youth and village maiden. O Time! secure these children's dreams From ills that darken and destroy us, And make life all that now it seems, As full, as fresh, as pure, as joyous. II. How soft the May-time hours steal on; Those steps that each to each did cling, How calmly flows the tide of time Yet not in grief the end is told, Who knows what gathering dangers died earth, And what new dreams and deeds had birth When the new mystery opened wide? And in her heart may yet be room |